But to be made twice ridiculous even by the incarnation of snobbishness
was galling. She was to be my next-door neighbor; we were likely to
meet almost anywhere at any time. When I thought of this and of the two
meetings which had already taken place I swore at the blue and white
water-pitcher on my bureau because it did not contain water enough to
drown me. Not that I would commit suicide on her account. She would not
care if I did and certainly I did not care whether she would care or
not; but if I were satisfactorily dead I probably should not remember
what a fool I had made of myself, or Fate had made of me.

Why had I not got out of that library before she came? Oh, if not, why
hadn't I stayed and told her father, in her hearing, and with dignity,
just what I thought of him and his remarks to me? But no; I had run
away. She--or that Victor--would tell of the meeting at the bridge, and
all my independence and the rest of it would be regarded as of a piece
with that, just the big-headed "smartness" of a country boor. In their
eyes I was a nuisance, that was all. A disagreeable one, perhaps, like
the Shore Lane, but a nuisance, one to laugh at and forget--if it could
not be gotten rid of.

Why had I gone with Colton at all? Why hadn't I remained at the
boathouse and there told the King of New York to go to the mischief? or
words to that effect. But I had, at all events, told him that. In spite
of my chagrin I could not help chuckling as I thought of it. To tell Big
Jim Colton to go to the devil was, in its way, I imagined, a privilege
enjoyed by few. It must have shaken his self-satisfaction a trifle.
Well, after all, what did I care? He, and his whole family--including
Victor--had my permission to migrate in that direction and I wished Old
Nick joy of their company.