He could not bear to hear Stephen use such
a word in connection with herself.

'No! You must not say "shame." There is no shame to you, Stephen. There
can be none, and no one must say it in my presence!' In her secret heart
of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them at the moment sink
into her memory, and knew that she would never forget the mastery of his
face and bearing. But the blindness of rage was upon her, and it is of
the essence of this white-hot anger that it preys not on what is basest
in us, but on what is best. That Harold felt deeply was her opportunity
to wound him more deeply than before.

'Even here in the solitude which I had chosen as the battleground of my
shame you had need to come unasked, unthought of, when even a lesser mind
than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to leave me alone. My
shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning to take my punishment.
My punishment! Poor creatures that we are, we think our punishment will
be what we would like best: to suffer in silence, and not to have spread
abroad our shame!' How she harped on that word, though she knew that
every time she uttered it, it cut to the heart of the man who loved her.
'And yet you come right on top of my torture to torture me still more and
illimitably. You come, you who alone had the power to intrude yourself
on my grief and sorrow; power given you by my father's kindness. You
come to me without warning, considerately telling me that you knew I
would be here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble.
No--I do you an injustice. "In trouble" was not what you said, but that
I had come when I had been in short frocks. Short frocks! And you came
to tell me that you loved me. You thought, I suppose, that as I had
refused one man, I would jump at the next that came along. I wanted a
man. God! God! what have I done that such an affront should come upon
me? And come, too, from a hand that should have protected me if only in
gratitude for my father's kindness!' She was eyeing him keenly, with
eyes that in her unflinching anger took in everything with the accuracy
of sun-painting. She wanted to wound; and she succeeded.

But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to
them they answered. Though the pain of death was upon him he did not
flinch. He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood; but a
rock on whose summit the waves had cast the w