"I can well believe it."
"Nice and kind," she repeated, with emphasis. "And you were most horrid to him. And I do think you're unkind—"
"I don't mean to be," said Edward, "and it's not my province to be horrid and unkind to you, any more than it is to be nice and kind. In this letter you say good-by. Am I to understand that you mean good-by—that I am to leave you, here—now?"
She did not answer, and there was that in her silence which laid a healing touch on his hurt vanity.
"If my manner doesn't please you," he went on, "do remember that you have brought a fairly solid Spanish castle about my ears and that I am still a little bewildered and bruised."
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I didn't think."
"You see," he went on, "I thought I'd found a girl who wasn't just like other girls. . . ."
"I'm afraid I am," she said—"just."
"I thought that you were brave and truthful and strong—and that you trusted me; and then I find you haven't the courage to stick to the way we planned; you haven't even the courage to wait for me and tell me you've changed your mind. You bolt off like a frightened rabbit and make friends with the first bounder who comes along. I was a fool to think I could help you. You don't need my help. Anybody else can help you just as well. Good-by—"
"Good-by," she said, not looking up. And he perceived that she was weeping. Also that he was no longer angry.