"Still, you should not be sorry at having offered all the reparation in your power."
"Well, now I come to think of it, Sidney, I'm not sorry. To confess the real plain truth, I'm glad."
"Indeed!"
"Because I have made a discovery, and if you're half a Hinchford, you'll profit by the hint. Harriet Wesden loves you."
Sidney's hands grappled the arms of his chair, in which he half rose, and then set down again. The red blood mounted to his face, even those dreamy eyes flashed fire again—the avowal was too decided and uncompromising not to affect him.
"I do not wish to dwell upon this topic."
"Ah! but I do. It has been bothering me all the way to Paris—all the way back. I have been building fancy castles concerning it. I have been one gigantic, unmitigated schemer since I saw you last, planning for a happiness which is yours by a word, and which you deserve, Sid Hinchford. I feel that your life might be greatly changed, and that it is in your power to effect it."
"Were it my wish, it is too late. As it is not my wish—as I do not believe you," he added, bluntly—"as I have outlived my youthful follies, and am sober, serious, and unromantic—as I have made my choice, and know where my happiness lies, I will ask you not to pain me—not to torture me, by a continuance of this subject."
"Let me just give you a sketch of what she said to me."
"I will hear no more!" he cried, with an impatient stamp of his foot.