She slowly rose from her little bench, gathering her work into the skirt of her dress. “And, doubting of his honesty, you have let him take up his abode here, you have let him become dear to me?” She was making him ten times a fool! “Why, if you liked him,” he said. “When did I ever refuse you anything?” There came upon Nora a sudden unpitying sense that Roger was ridiculous. “Honest or not honest,” she said with vehemence, “I do like him. Cousin or no cousin, he is my friend.” “Very good. But I warn you. I don’t enjoy talking to you thus. Only let me tell you, once for all, that your cousin, your friend—your—whatever he is!”— He faltered an instant; Nora’s eyes were fixed on him. “That he disgusts me!” “You are extremely unjust. You have taken no trouble to know him. You have treated him from the first with small civility!” “Was the trouble to be all mine? Civility! he never missed it; he doesn’t know what it means.” “He knows more than you think. But we must talk no more about him.” She rolled together her canvas and reels; and then suddenly, with passionate inconsequence, “Poor, poor George!” she cried. Roger watched her a moment; then he said bitterly, “You disappoint me.” “You must have formed great hopes of me!” she answered. “I confess I had.” “Say good by to them then, Roger. If this is wrong, I am all wrong!” She spoke with a proud decision, which was very becoming; she had never yet come so near being beautiful. In the midst of his passionate vexation Roger admired her. The scene seemed for a moment a bad dream, from which, with a start, he might wake up to tell her he loved her. “Your anger gives an admirable point to your remarks. Indeed, it gives a beauty to your face. Must a young lady be in the wrong to be attractive?” he went on, hardly knowing what he said. But a burning blush in her cheeks recalled him to a kind of self-abhorrence. “Would to God,” he cried, “your abominable cousin had never come between us!” “Between us? He is not between us. I stand as near you, Roger, as I ever did. Of course George will go away immediately.” “Of course! I am not so sure. He will, I suppose, if he is asked.” “Of course I shall ask him.” “Nonsense. You will not enjoy that.” “We are old friends by this time,” said Nora, with terrible irony. “I shall not in the least mind.” Roger could have choked himself. He had brought his case to this: Fenton a martyred proscript, and Nora a brooding victim of duty. “Do I want to turn the man out of the house?” he cried. “Do me a favor—I insist upon it. Say nothing to him, let him stay as long as he chooses. I am not afraid! I don’t trust him, but I trust you. I am curious to see how long he will have the impudence to stay. A fortnight hence I shall be justified. You will say to me, ‘Roger, you were right. George is not a gentleman.’ There! I insist.”