Not for a moment was there a look of forgiveness in her eye, or a sign of pardon in the lines of her face. But in her heart there was a contest. Something of the old passion remained there, though it was no more than the soreness it had caused. For half a moment she thought whether it might not be as he would have it. But if so, how could she again look any of her friends in the face and admit that she had surrendered herself to so much unworthiness? How could she tell Patience, who was beginning to be full of renewed hope for Gregory? How could she confess such a weakness to her father? How could she stand up before Mary Bonner? And was it possible that she should really give herself, her whole life, and all her future hopes, to one so weak and worthless as this man? "There is nothing to forgive," she said, "but I certainly cannot forget."
"You know that I love you," he protested.
"Love me;—yes, with what sort of love? But it does not matter. There need be no further talk about it. Your love to me can be nothing."
"Clarissa!"
"And to you it will be quite as little. Your heart will never suffer much, Ralph. How long is it since you offered your hand to my cousin? Only that you are just a boy playing at love, this would be an insult." Then she saw her old friend through the window. "Mrs. Brownlow," she said, "Mr. Newton is going, and I am ready for our walk whenever you please."
"Think of it twice, Clarissa;—must this be the end of it?" pleaded Ralph.
"As far as I am concerned it must be the end of it. When I get home I shall probably find that you have already made an offer to Patience." Then he got up, took his hat, and having shaken hands cordially with Mrs. Brownlow through the window, went out to his hansom cab, which was earning sixpence a quarter of an hour out on the road, while he had been so absolutely wasting his quarter of an hour within the house.
"Has he said anything, my dear?" asked Mrs. Brownlow.
"He has said a great deal."
"Well, my dear?"