She guided him to the supper-room. It was empty. “Oblige me with a glass of water.”
He gave it her. She drank it.
“Mr. Dodd, the advice I gave you with my own lips I never retracted. My aunt imposed upon you. It was done to mortify you. It has failed, as you may have observed. My head aches so, it is intolerable. When they ask you where I am, say I am unwell, and have retired to my room. I shall not be at breakfast; directly after breakfast go to your sister, and tell her your friend Lucy declined you, though she knows your value, and would not let you be mortified by nullities and heartless fools. Good-by, Mr. Dodd; try and believe that none of us you leave in this house are worth remembering, far less regretting.”
She vanished haughtily; David crept back to the ball-room. It seemed dark by comparison now she who lent it luster was gone. He stayed a few minutes, then heavy-hearted to bed.
The next morning he shook hands with Mr. Bazalgette, the only one who was up, kissed the terrible infant, who, suddenly remembering his many virtues, formally forgave him his one piece of injustice, and, as he came, so he went away, his bag on his shoulder and his violin-case in his hand.
He went to Cousin Mary and asked for Eve. Cousin Mary's face turned red: “You will find her at No. 80 in this street. She is gone into lodgings.” The fact is, the cousins had had a tiff, and Eve had left the house that moment.
Oh! my sweet, my beloved heroines—you young vipers, when will you learn to be faultless, like other people? You have turned my face into a peony, blushing for you at every fourth page.
David came into her apartment. He smiled sweetly, but sadly. “Well, it is all over. I have offered, and been declined.”
At seeing him so quiet and resigned, Eve burst out crying.
“Don't you cry, dear,” said David. “It is best so. It is almost a relief. Anything before the suspense I was enduring.”