"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!"
"I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married—Mrs. Hurtle."
"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."
"Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,—he would not tell it for he was too kind,—but when he would not contradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr. Montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to me."
"What does it matter?"
"Oh no; of course not;—nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier."
"Do you mean to say that—you are going to—throw me over?"
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye."
"Hetta!"
"No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague." And so she left him.