“Bessie!”
The young woman looked up, and said, carelessly, “Oh, it’s you—eh? Well, you are a stranger.”
“And whose fault is that?” cried Peace, as he shook her jewelled hand which she held forth. “Whose fault is that?”
“Ah, that would not be so easy to say, if there is a fault.”
“What is the reason for you not acknowledging any of my letters? You’ve served me nicely; leaving Bradford without letting me know where you had gone, you and Mrs. Bristow. Now I have met with you I mean to know all about your movements.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Peace, resolutely, and with something like anger in his tone.
“Well, you see, my dear fellow,” said Bessie, in a languid tone, “there were many reasons for our leaving, and as there were also many reasons for our preserving our incognito, I was not able under the circumstances to write a farewell letter to you, and have now to apologise for my seeming neglect, which I assure you was not wilful.”
Peace was perfectly astounded.
The easy self-assurance of the woman proved that she was evidently no longer the same in manner and ideas as he had known as a factory hand.