Now Donald was not particularly chivalrous, and he thought it quite fair that he should find some advantage to himself in his discovery. So he said, holding the letter behind him:
“What are you going to give me not to tell?”
Chris drew herself up haughtily.
“I am not going to give you anything, Mr. Shute. But you will have to give me my letter.”
“And you won’t mind if I repeat this little anecdote, say, at the dinner-table to-night?”
“Not a bit. And you, I dare say, won’t mind what I shall think of you?”
It was his turn to blush now. He stammered out that, of course, he was only in fun, and he handed her the letter in the most sheepish and shame-faced manner. Although she took it from him very coolly, to all appearance, a strange thrill went through her as she held it, and knew unfamiliar as the handwriting was, from whom it came.
Donald stared at her. For there had flashed over her face a strange look, half gladness, half sorrow, and he felt with jealousy that some other man had roused in her the feeling he would have liked her to have for himself. For a moment she seemed hardly conscious that she was not alone; then recovering herself quickly, she remembered that this wretched youth had the power, if he liked, to increase the misfortunes of a man who was unlucky enough already. So she said, catching her breath, and speaking with a most eloquent moisture in her eyes, and with a tremor in her voice which few male creatures could have resisted:
“Of course—I believe you, I believe what you said—that you were only in fun. You would not care to bring real misery upon—anybody, would you?”
Donald was touched, and he reddened, under the influence of a kindly emotion, even more deeply than he had done with anger.