“Ruined you?—nonsense! Make up some other fib, and excuse the first.”
“I can't. I don't know what to do; and before my rival, too! This accounts for the air of triumph he has worn ever since, and her glances of scorn and pity. She is an angel, and I have lost her.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Fanny Dover. “Be a man, and tell me the truth.”
“Well, I will,” said he; “for I am in despair. It is all that cursed money at Homburg. I could not clear my estate without it. I dare not go for it. She forbade me; and indeed I can't bear to leave her for anything; so I employed Poikilus to try and learn whether that lady has the money still, and whether she means to rob me of it or not.”
Fanny Dover reflected a moment, then delivered herself thus: “You were wrong to tell a fib about it. What you must do now—brazen it out. Tell her you love her, but have got your pride and will not come into her family a pauper. Defy her, to be sure; we like to be defied now and then, when we are fond of the fellow.”
“I will do it,” said he; “but she shuns me. I can't get a word with her.”
Fanny said she would try and manage that for him; and as the rest of their talk might not interest the reader, and certainly would not edify him, I pass on to the fact that she did, that very afternoon, go into Zoe's room, and tell her Severne was very unhappy: he had told a fib; but it was not intended to deceive her, and he wished to explain the whole thing.
“Did he explain it to you?” asked Zoe, rather sharply.
“No; but he said enough to make me think you are using him very hardly. To be sure, you have another string to your bow.”
“Oh, that is the interpretation you put.”