At first he denied that there was anything, next stubbornly
refused to tell her what it was, and at last, like a hurt schoolboy,
blurted out his grievance. To his amazement and grief, Mrs. Gray took
Sylvia's part. This was the last straw. He jerked himself away from her,
and went out, slamming the front door after him. It was evening, and he
was tired and hot and dirty. The rest of the family had almost finished
supper when he reached the table, an unexpected delay having arisen in
the barn, and he had eaten the unappetizing scraps that remained
hurriedly, without taking time to shave and bathe and change his clothes.
He had never gone to Sylvia in this manner before; but he strode down the
path to her house with a bitter satisfaction in his heart that she was to
see him when he was looking and feeling his worst, and that she would
have to take him as he was, or not at all. He found her in her garden
cutting roses, a picture of dainty elegance in her delicate white
fabrics. She greeted him somewhat coolly, as if to punish him for his
lack of deference to her on his last visit, and his subsequent neglect,
and glanced at his costume with a disapproval which she was at no pains
to conceal.
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