She could not bear to relinquish the pleasure of torturing him. Her own heart was so little touched that she could have no pity for his troubles; indeed, it seemed somewhat to appease the few reproaches which haunted her, in spite of her vanity and selfishness, to occasion him uneasiness and pain.
"When I come a second time you will put me off with some new pretext," he said, angrily.
"Then you cannot take my word? Very well; if you will not believe me, what can I do?"
"I have never doubted you, Ellen."
"Indeed you have had no reason to think about it either way," she replied, carelessly; "we were nothing to each other more than common acquaintances."
"You know that I have loved you for years—that I have given up my home, my profession—have endured and suffered every thing on your account."
"I would not give much for affection which would be unwilling to do that much," she retorted.
"I was willing," he said; "but at least now, let there be an end to all this—tell me when you will become my wife?"
"When I am accomplished enough to set up for a lady."