"But I insist on telling you every word he said to me, and all about it."
"If you had insisted on that half an hour ago you would have saved thirty minutes," says Stafford, laughing.
"Then I would not gratify you; now—Tedcastle came here, poor fellow, in a wretched state about Molly Massereene, whose secret he has at length discovered. About eleven o'clock last night he rushed in here almost distracted to get her address; so I went to Molly early this morning, obtained leave to give it,—and a love-letter as well, which you saw me deliver,—and all his raptures and tender epithets were meant for her, and not for me. Is it not a humiliating confession? Even when he kissed my hands it was only in gratitude, and his heart was full of Molly all the time."
"Then it was not you he was to meet alone?"—eagerly.
"What! Still suspicious? No, sir, it was not your wife he was to meet 'alone,' Now, are you properly abashed? Are you satisfied?"
"I am, and deeply contrite. Yet, Cecil, you must know what it is causes me such intolerable jealousy, and, knowing, you should pardon. My love for you only increases day by day. Tell me again I am forgiven."
"Yes, quite forgiven."
"And"—stealing his arm gently round her—"are you in the smallest degree glad to see me again?"
"In a degree,—yes." Raising to his, two eyes, full of something more than common gladness.
"Really?"