Perhaps Tony did not lay the same stress on this that his friend did; perhaps no explanation of it came readily to his mind; at all events, he made no attempt at comment, and only said,—
“And what will your answer be?”
“What can it be?—to release her, of course.”
“Ay, but how will you say it?”
“Here's what I have written; it is the fourth attempt, and I don't much like it yet, but I can't do it better.”
And once more they turned to the light while M'Gruder read out his letter. It was a kind and feeling letter; it contained not one word of reproach, but it said that, into the home he had taken, and where he meant to be so happy, he 'd never put foot again. “You ought to have seen it, Tony,” said he, with a quiver in his voice. “It was all so neat and comfortable; and the little room I meant to be Dolly's own was hung round with prints, and there was a little terrace, with some orange-trees and myrtles, that would grow there all through the winter,—for it was a sheltered spot under the Monte Nero; but it's all over now.”
“Don't send off that letter. I mean, let me see her and speak to her before you write. I shall be at home, I hope, by Wednesday, and I'll go over to the Burnside,—or, better still, I 'll make my mother ask Dolly to come over to us. Dolly loves her as if she were her own mother, and if any one can influence her she will be that one.”
“But I'd not wish her to come round by persuasion, Tony. Dolly's a girl to have a will of her own, and she's never made op her mind to write me that letter without thinking well over it.”
“Perhaps she'll tell my mother her reasons. Perhaps she'll say why she draws back from her promise.”
“I don't even know that I'd like to drive her to that; it mightn't be quite fair.”