Uxmoor was ashamed of his brusquerie. “What a brute I am to frighten you like this!” said he. “Pray forgive me; but the sight of you, after all these weary months—and you said 'Poor fellow!'”
“Did I?” said Zoe, faintly, looking scared.
“Yes, sweet Zoe, and you were reading a letter.”
No reply.
“I thought the poor fellow might be myself. Not that I am to be pitied, if you think of me still.”
“I do, then—very often. Oh, Lord Uxmoor, I want to go down on my knees to you.”
“That is odd, now; for it is exactly what I should like to do to you.”
“What for? It is I who have behaved so ill.”
“Never mind that; I love you.”
“But you mustn't. You must love some worthy person.”