“Yes, there was, a great deal. Is there something else? Are you still angry with me because of what I said that afternoon at the gate?” “No, of course not.” “It was hateful of me, I know. But I could see that you wished to avoid me and I was provoked. Besides, you have punished me for that. You have snubbed me twice since, sir.” “_I_ snubbed YOU?” “Yes--twice. Once when we met in the street. You deliberately turned away and would not look at me. And once when I passed you in the canoe. You saw me--I know you did--but you cut me dead. That is why I did not return your bow to-day, at the wedding.” “But you had said--I thought--” “I know. I had said horrid things. I deserved to be snubbed. There! now I have confessed. Mayn't we be friends?” “I . . . Oh, no, we must not, for your sake. I--” “For my sake! But I wish it. Why not?” I turned on her. “Can't you see?” I said, despairingly. “Look at the difference between us! You are what you are and I--” She interrupted me. “Oh,” she cried, impatiently, “how dare you speak so? How dare you believe that money and--all the rest of it influences me in my friendships? Do you think I care for that?” “I did not mean money alone. But even that Miss Colton, that evening when we returned from the trip after weakfish, you and your father and I, I heard--I did not mean to hear but I did--what your mother said when she met you. She said she had warned you against trusting yourself to 'that common fellow,' meaning me. That shows what she thinks. She was right; in a way she was perfectly right. Now you see what I mean by saying that friendship between us is impossible?” I had spoken at white heat. Now I turned away. It was settled. She must understand now. “Mr. Paine.” “Yes, Miss Colton.” “I am sorry you heard that. Mother--she is my mother and I love her--but she says foolish things sometimes. I am sorry you heard that, but since you did, I wish you had heard the rest.” “The rest?” “Yes. I answered her by suggesting that she had not been afraid to trust me in the care of Victor--Mr. Carver. She answered that she hoped I did not mean to compare Mr. Carver with you. And I said--” “Yes? You said--?” “I said,” the tone was low but I heard every syllable, “I said she was right, there was no comparison.” “You said THAT!” “Yes.” “You said it! And you meant--?” “I meant--I think I meant that I should not be afraid to trust you always--anywhere.” Where were my good resolutions--my stern reasons to remember who and what I was--to be sane, no matter at what cost to myself? I do not know where they were; then I did not care. I seized her hand. It trembled, but she did not draw it away. “Mabel--” I cried. “Mabel--” “BUMP!” The Comfort shook as the bow of a dory scraped along her starboard quarter. A big red hand clasped the rail and its mate brandished a good-sized club before my eyes.