"Ayala Dormer;—my cousin. She was at Rome, but I do not think you ever saw her there."
"I have seen her since," said the Colonel.
"Have you? I didn't know."
"She was with my aunt, the Marchesa Baldoni."
"Dear me! So she was. I never put the two things together. Don't you admire her?"
"Certainly I do. My dear fellow, I can't write this letter for you." Then he put down the pen which he had taken up as though he had intended to comply with his friend's request. "You may take it as settled that I cannot write it."
"No?"
"Impossible. One man should never write such a letter for another man. You had better give the thing in person,—that is, if you mean to go on with the matter."
"I shall certainly go on with it," said Tom, stoutly.
"After a certain time, you know, reiterated offers do, you know,—do,—do,—partake of the nature of persecution."