do, you do."

"Under proper conditions," he admitted largely, "I might, yes."

"Under any conditions, in your heart you want them, we all want them;
you're not different."

"Well, and what then?"

"You are not honest, that is what then."

"Well," he returned, "and what then?"

She was almost crying. "You exonerate yourself, you condone yourself,
you say you would, you could, you will--some day, if--if thus and so.
You think some better condition is going to bring the confidence to be
what nature meant you to be; yes, you do think it, you do, you do. But
it has to grow out of yourself. I can tell you that, and when the time
you think for comes, to be what you'd like to be, you'll have lost the
power. I want to say it, I mean to say it, I want to hurt you, I hope
my saying it can hurt you, so I can go away glad, glad I've hurt you.
There, I've said it; don't stop me, don't; I came to say it and I'm
going back now."

He was breathing hard. "Oh, no," he said, "you're not." He glanced
around. Then he stepped down from the gallery and turned. "Come, let
yourself go, I'll steady you."

She hesitated, brushing some wet from her cheek with her hand. She did
not know until then there had been tears.

"Come," he reiterated. It was the tone women, even Molly, obeyed.

She slipped down and he caught her and set her on her feet. "Pick up
your dress," he said, "the grass is wet."

Everywhere, it seemed, there were couples strolling. Around to the
right, by the side door, with its little, vine-covered pent-house, was
a bench beneath a tree; Aunt Mandy and Mrs. Leroy aired their crocks
and pans thereon. He led the way to it, spread out his handkerchief,
and Alexina, gathering up her gleaming dress, sat down. The comical
side of it must have occurred to him, the girl gathering up a dress
fit for a princess, to sit there. He laughed, not an altogether
humorous laugh.

"Illustrative of the true state of things, as it were," he said. "I
proffer my lady a milk-bench."

A sob rose in her throat. "I hate you," she said hotly.

"That you bestow feeling of any sort, to such degree, is flattering,"
said he nastily.

"You're very rude."

"It puts us on a sort of equality, and establishes me in my own
self-respect, so to speak, to have face to be rude to _une grande
dame_--"

"You're not honest, and you know it, and it's hurting you while you're
doing it."

"Just so," said William, after the fashion of his father. "Where ar