uld encourage me."

"I admire your patience; that is encouraging."

"You should n't even say that. When you talk of my patience you are
disloyal to your own people. Patience implies suffering; and what have I
had to suffer?"

"Oh, not hunger, not unkindness, certainly," said Acton, laughing.
"Nevertheless, we all admire your patience."

"You all detest me!" cried the Baroness, with a sudden vehemence,
turning her back toward him.

"You make it hard," said Acton, getting up, "for a man to say something
tender to you." This evening there was something particularly striking
and touching about her; an unwonted softness and a look of suppressed
emotion. He felt himself suddenly appreciating the fact that she had
behaved very well. She had come to this quiet corner of the world
under the weight of a cruel indignity, and she had been so gracefully,
modestly thankful for the rest she found there. She had joined that
simple circle over the way; she had mingled in its plain, provincial
talk; she had shared its meagre and savorless pleasures. She had set
herself a task, and she had rigidly performed it. She had conformed to
the angular conditions of New England life, and she had had the tact and
pluck to carry it off as if she liked them. Acton felt a more downright
need than he had ever felt before to tell her that he admired her and
that she struck him as a very superior woman. All along, hitherto,
he had been on his guard with her; he had been cautious, observant,
suspicious. But now a certain light tumult in his blood seemed to tell
him that a finer degree of confidence in this charming woman would be
its own reward. "We don't detest you," he went on. "I don't know what
you mean. At any rate, I speak for myself; I don't know anything about
the others. Very likely, you detest them for the dull life they make you
lead. Really, it would give me a sort of pleasure to hear you say so."

Eugenia had been looking at the door on the other side of the room;
now she slowly turned her eyes toward Robert Acton. "What can be
the motive," she asked, "of a man like you--an honest man, a galant
homme--in saying so base a thing as that?"

"Does it sound very base?" asked Acton, candidly. "I suppose it
does, and I thank you for telling me so. Of course, I don't mean it
literally."

The Baroness stood looking at him. "How do you mean it?" she asked.

This question was difficult to answer, and Acton, feeling the least
bit foolish, walk