“No.”
“It is the same thing. You are to be his wife, when this, that, or t'other happens?”
“No.”
“In a word, if there be no compact, there is an understanding between you?”
“Once more, no!” said she, in the same firm voice.
“Will you deny that you have received letters from him, and have written to him again?”
An angry flush covered the girl's cheek, and her lip trembled. For an instant it seemed as if an indignant answer would break from her; but she repressed the impulse, and coolly said, “There is no need to deny it. I have done both.”
“I knew it,—I knew it!” cried he, in a bitter exultation. “You might have dealt more frankly with me, or might have said, 'I am in no wise accountable to you, I recognize no right in you to question me.' Had you done this, May, it would have been a warning to me; but to say, 'Ask me freely, I will tell you everything,'—was this fair, was this honest, was it true-hearted?”
“And yet I meant it for such,” said she, sorrowfully. “I may have felt a passing sense of displeasure that you should have heard from any other than myself of this correspondence; but even that is passed away, and I care not to learn from whom you heard it. I have written as many as three letters to Mr. Layton. This is his last to me.” She took at the same moment a letter from her pocket, and handed it towards him.
“I have no presumption to read your correspondence, May Leslie,” said he, red with shame and anger together. “Your asking me to do so implies a rebuke in having dared to speak on the subject, but it is for the last time.”