Lillian was all unstrung, her powers of self-control annulled. She broke
out with as unreasoning a sense of injury as a sensitive child might have
felt. "They are talking about us!" she wailed.
"They are not the first!" Bayne could not restrain his curt, bitter
laugh, the unconscious humor of the suggestion was so patent, albeit the
edge cut deep.
"And how do you suppose that fact makes _me_ feel?" she asked, looking up
at him, her eyes full of tears, her heart swelling, her face scarlet.
Bayne would have given much to avoid this moment. But now that the
discussion was upon him, he said to himself that he would not traffic
with the insincerities, he would not be recreant to his own identity. He
would not fawn, and bow, and play the smug squire of dames, full of
specious flatteries, and kiss the hand that smote him.
"And how do you suppose that _I_ should think you could feel at all?" he
retorted sternly.
It was so unlike him, the rebuke--he had so ardently worshipped her, even
her faults, which were like shining endowments in his estimation--that
for the first time she felt the full poignancy of his alienation.
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