her hand, as
he had been in the habit of doing, as he stood beside her with something
of a proprietary air. He relinquished her hand with a little look of
surprise--a sort of pained surprise. She was inexorable. She would not
even allow him to maintain his proprietary air.

"Do sit down, Mr. Holland," she said.

"What! 'Mr. Holland' already? Oh, Phyllis!"

He had a good voice, full of expression--something beyond mere musical
expression. People (they were mostly women) said that his voice had soul
in it, whatever they meant by that.

She made no reply. What reply could she make? She only waited for him to
sit down.

"Your letter came as a great shock to me, Phyllis," said he, when he had
seated himself, not too close to her. He did not wish her to fancy that
he was desirous of having a subtle influence of propinquity as an ally.
"A great shock to me."

"A shock?" said she. "A shock, after you had written that book?"

"I fancied you would understand it, Phyllis--you, at least. Of course
I expected to be misrepresented by the world--the critics--the
clerics--what you will--but you----You had not read it when you wrote
that letter to me--that terrible letter. You could not have read it."

"I had only read one notice of it--that was enough."

"And you could write that letter to me solely as the evidence of one
wretched print? Oh, Phyllis!"

Pain was in his voice. It may have been in his face as well, but she did
not see it; his face was averted from her.

"Yes," she said quietly; "I wrote that letter, Mr. Holland. You see, the
paper gave large extracts from the book. I did not come to my conclusion
from what the newspaper article said, but from what you had said in your
book--from the quoted passages."

"They did not do me justice. I did not look for justice at their hands.
But you, Phyllis----"

"I have read your book now, Mr. Holland----"

"Ah, let me plead with you, Phyllis--not 'Mr. Holland,' I entreat of
you."

"And my first thought on reading it was that I had not written to you so
strongly as I should have done."

"My dear Phyllis, do not say that, I beg of you. You cannot know how you
pain me."

"To be misunderstood by you--_you_."

She got upon her feet so quickly that it might almost be said she sprang
up.

"_You_ must have misunderstood _me_ greatly, Mr. Holland, if you fancied
that you could write such a book as you wrote and not get such a letter
from me. The Bible--Ruth--and you a cle