"You will not go," returns she, trying to speak with conviction, but looking very anxious.
"I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life here is intolerable."
"There is one thing," says she, her voice trembling. "You might make it up with her."
"Do you think I haven't tried," says he, with a harsh laugh "I'm tired of making advances. I have done all that man can do. No, I shall not try again. My one regret in leaving England will be that I shall not see you again!"
"Don't!" says she, hoarsely.
"I believe on my soul," says he, hurriedly, "that you do care for me. That it is only because of her that you will not listen to me."
"You are right!" (in a low tone)—"I—" Her voice fails her, she presses her hands together. "I confess," says she, with terrible abandonment, "that I might have listened to you—had I not liked her so well."
"Better than me, apparently," says he, bitterly. "She has had the best of it all through."
"There we are quits, then," says she, quite as bitterly. "Because you like her better than me."
"If so—do you think I would speak to you as I have spoken?"