Neville read it, and his lip trembled; but he said nothing, and presently went out into the hall, and put on his hat, for he saw his nag at the door.
Father Francis followed him, and said, sorrowfully, "What, not one word in reply to so humble a request?"
"Well, here's my reply," said George, grinding his teeth. "She knows French, though she pretends not.
"'Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot,
L'honnête homme trompé s'éloigne et ne dit mot.'"
And with this he galloped furiously away.
He buried himself at Neville's Cross for several days, and would neither see nor speak to a soul. His heart was sick, his pride lacerated. He even shed some scalding tears in secret; though to look at him that seemed impossible.
So passed a bitter week: and in the course of it he bethought him of the tears he had made a true Italian lady shed; and never pitied her a grain till now.
He was going abroad: on his desk lay a little crumpled paper. It was Kate's entreaty for forgiveness. He had ground it in his hand, and ridden away with it.
Now he was going away, he resolved to answer her.
He wrote a letter full of bitter reproaches; read it over; and tore it up.