“For God's sake, don't talk so. I am sure you exaggerate. You cannot, in those few days, have pledged your faith to another. Let me see your finger. Ah! there's my ring on it still: bless you, my own darling Zoe—bless you;” and he covered her hand with kisses, and bedewed it with his ever-ready tears.
The girl began to melt, and all power to ooze out of her, mind and body. She sighed deeply and said, “What can I do—I don't say with honor and credit, but with decency. What can I do?”
“Tell me, first, what you have said to him that you consider so compromising.”
Zoe, with many sighs, replied: “I believe—I said—I was unhappy. And so I was. And I owned—that I admired—and esteemed him. And so I do. And then of course he wanted more, and I could not give more; and he asked might he try and make me love him; and—I said—I am afraid I said—he might, if he could.”
“And a very proper answer, too.”
“Ah! but I said he might come every day. It is idle to deceive ourselves: I have encouraged his addresses. I can do nothing now with credit but die, or go into a convent.”
“When did you say this?”
“This very day.”
“Then he has never acted on it.”
“No, but he will. He will be here tomorrow for certain.”