"Come away from the house," said Hugh coldly, tightening the iron
grip as though Pete's wincing gave him satisfaction. "Come up here
by the pines. I want to talk to you."

"I'll come," said Pete. "Let go my arm."

There was that in his voice that compelled obedience. Hugh's hand
fell and knotted into a fist. Pete walked beside him up the abrupt
slope of their hollow to the little hill above the river. Its noise
was loud in the still, sunny air. There was no wind stirring. It was
high noon. A sloping tent of shadow drooped from the pines and made
a dark circle about their roots. In this transparent, purplish tent
the brothers faced each other. Pete's lips were tremulous, and Hugh's
distorted.

"Now," said Hugh, breathing irregularly and speaking very low, "I'll
tell you what I think of you."

"No, Hugh, don't," Pete pleaded. "You'll say things you don't
mean--unkind things, terrible things. I don't deserve it from you.
You--you think that I--that I--"

"Go on. Don't stop. Tell me what I think--I think--that you--that
you--"

It was an unbearable moment, an impossible atmosphere, for the
revelation of a first love. Pete felt stripped and shamed.

"You think that I was telling Sylvie, that Sylvie--that I--"