"Ah! but what is the keenest—bitterest?"
"That is a leading question, as the lawyers say."
"Then I'll not press it—I'll speak of my own regrets instead. I regret having followed your advice, Sidney."
"We are all liable to err—I meant it for the best."
"I called the following evening on Harriet Wesden—I offered her my hand, as an earnest of that affection which only needed her presence to revive again—I asked pardon for my past, and spoke of my atonement in the future. Could I do more?"
"No."
Sidney was nervously anxious to learn the result, but he merely compressed his lips, and waited for the sequel. He would not ask how this had ended—his pride held back his curiosity.
"And she refused me, as you and I might have expected, had we more seriously considered the matter. By George, I shall never forget her fiery eyes, her angry gestures, her contempt, which seemed withering me up—I knew that it was all over with every shadow of hope, then."
"A man should never despair."
"It would be difficult to help it in the face of that clincher, Sidney. Well, it served me right; I might have expected it; I might have guessed the truth, had I given it a moment's thought; but I put my trust in you, Sidney, and a nice mess I have made of it! Upon my honour, I would rather bear two—say three—of Mr. Gray's sermons, than face Harriet Wesden again."