"How you must hate me to say that!" I exclaimed. "That's some comfort, just a little—your hating me."
"I can't tell you how it makes me feel to see you so indiscreet," he went on, as if he had not heard me. "Ah, my dear lady, don't meddle—a woman like you! Think of the bad taste of it."
"It 's bad if you like; but yours is far worse."
"Mine! What do you know about mine? What do you know about me? See how superficial it makes you." He paused a moment, smiling almost compassionately; and then he said, with an abrupt change of tone and manner, as if our conversation wearied him and he wished to sum up and return to the house, "See that she marries Adrian; that 's all you have to do!"
"That 's a beautiful idea of yours! You know you don't believe in it yourself!" These words broke from me as he turned away, and we ascended the hill together.
"It 's the only thing I believe in," he answered, very gravely.
"What a pity for you that your brother does n't! For he doesn't—I persist in that!" I said this because it seemed to me just then to be the thing I could think of that would exasperate him most. The event proved I was right.
He stopped short in the path—gave me a very bad look. "Do you want him for yourself? Have you been making love to him?"
