“I am ready to own that I was to blame,” she went on, still slowly; “but I shall always think that he ought to have understood.”
“What?”
“What can’t be put into words. Why, I did not care to marry him.”
“You are enigmatical.”
She made an impatient movement.
“At any rate, it should be enough for you that I did not like him well enough.”
“And that is your explanation?”
“What; else?”
“It had occurred to me that the match might not have been considered sufficiently brilliant for the beautiful Miss Dalrymple.” She did not reject the supposition with anger as he perhaps expected, merely shook her head.
“You are like the rest of the world,” she said resignedly, so that he immediately felt shame for his own stupidity, but had nothing to say against it. He took refuge in pointing out that they had placed themselves in the line of a procession of caterpillars, all apparently on their way to the lake, and that several were at that moment on her dress. She brushed them off with indifference. “Why should you have fastened on that motive?” she asked.