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 But what could you expect of a Sloane, as Mrs. Rachel Lynde would ask scornfully? Charlie’s whole attitude, tone, air, words, fairly reeked with Sloanishness. He was conferring a great honor—no doubt whatever about that. And when Anne, utterly insensible to the honor, refused him, as delicately and considerately as she could—for even a Sloane had feelings which ought not to be unduly lacerated—Sloanishness still further betrayed itself. Charlie certainly did not take his dismissal as Anne’s imaginary rejected suitors did. Instead, he became angry, and showed it; he said two or three quite nasty things; Anne’s temper flashed up mutinously and she retorted with a cutting little speech whose keenness pierced even Charlie’s protective Sloanishness and reached the quick; he caught up his hat and flung himself out of the house with a very red face; Anne rushed upstairs, falling twice over Miss Ada’s cushions on the way, and threw herself on her bed, in tears of humiliation and rage. Had she actually stooped to quarrel with a Sloane? Was it possible anything Charlie Sloane could say had power to make her angry? Oh, this was degradation, indeed—worse even than being the rival of Nettie Blewett!

“I wish I need never see the horrible creature again,” she sobbed vindictively into her pillows.

She could not avoid seeing him again, but the outraged Charlie took care that it should not be at very close quarters. Miss Ada’s cushions were henceforth safe from his depredations, and when he met Anne on the street, or in Redmond’s halls, his bow was icy in