penance. "You must go up to young Mr. Garvell, and beg his pardon."

"I won't beg his pardon," I said, speaking for the first time.

My mother paused, incredulous.

I folded my arms on her table-cloth, and delivered my wicked little
ultimatum. "I won't beg his pardon nohow," I said. "See?"

"Then you will have to go off to your uncle Frapp at Chatham."

"I don't care where I have to go or what I have to do, I won't beg his
pardon," I said.

And I didn't.

After that I was one against the world. Perhaps in my mother's heart
there lurked some pity for me, but she did not show it. She took the
side of the young gentleman; she tried hard, she tried very hard, to
make me say I was sorry I had struck him. Sorry!

I couldn't explain.

So I went into exile in the dog-cart to Redwood station, with Jukes the
coachman, coldly silent, driving me, and all my personal belongings in a
small American cloth portmanteau behind.

I felt I had much to embitter me; the game had and the beginnings of
fairness by any standards I knew.... But the thing that embittered me
most was that the Honourable Beatrice Normandy should have repudiated