“I told you I would not give it,” said she. “I said you were unworthy of my confidence.”
“Oh, very well,” replied I, moving to the door.
“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see you: don’t go just yet.”
I remained, awaiting her further commands.
“Tell me,” resumed she, “on what grounds you believe these things against me; who told you; and what did they say?”
I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the worst, and determined to dare it too. “I can crush that bold spirit,” thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still held, in my hand, and pointing to the name on the fly-leaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I asked,—“Do you know that gentleman?”
“Of course I do,” replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her features—whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather resembled the latter. “What next, sir?”
“How long is it since you saw him?”
“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?”
“Oh, no one!—it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. And now, let me ask—have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of yours?—because, if you have not—”