Marcella had been touched and charmed, and Wharton teased her no more.

As they reached the door of the almshouse where the old Pattons lived, she said to him: "I think I had rather go in here by myself, please.

I have some things to give them--old Patton has been very ill this last week--but I know what you think of doles--and I know too what you think, what you must think, of my father's cottages.

It makes me feel a hypocrite; yet I must do these things; we are different, you and I--I am sure you will miss your train!" But there was no antagonism, only painful feeling in her softened look.
Wharton put out his hand.
"Yes, it is time for me to go.

You say I make you feel a hypocrite! I wonder whether you have any idea what you make me feel?
Do you imagine I should dare to say the things I have said except to one of the _elite_?
Would it be worth my while, as a social reformer?
Are you not vowed to great destinies?
When one comes across one of the tools of the future, must one not try to sharpen it, out of one's poor resources, in spite of manners ?" Marcella, stirred--abashed--fascinated--let him press her hand.