“They did not ask me to tarry in the room to charge me with double-dealing in regard to the book,” said Fanny. “They would not allow me to make my confession when I had the opportunity—the best that I shall ever have. ’Twas not my confession that was on the tapis, but quite another. That is why I look glum.”
“Another—another confession? But what had either of them to confess?” cried Lottie.
“Nothing. They didn’t confess.”
“But whose confession was it, then, if not theirs?” asked Lottie.
“It was young Mr. Barlowe’s,” said Fanny, with a lugubriousness that was quite comic. “Young Mr. Barlowe wrote to the padre to confess that he was passionately—madly—in love with me, and threatening to drown himself unless permission were given to him to address me—we all know how fervently young Mr. Barlowe would put his case—that was what I was summoned to listen to—the fiery letter—only it was too ardent for my ears: I was only told its purport.”
“But who would ever have thought that he had it in him?” cried Susy. “Such impudence! I never dreamt that he could rise to such a height of impudence or I should have thought better of him.”
“’Tis not too late yet, my child,” said Fanny. “You are at liberty to think as highly of Thomas as you please—or as it would please him. Please take over his blighted affections and it will be a weight off my mind. Now give me a chance of reading my splendid review—not that I care in the least what these foolish critics may say of me—I care nothing, I tell you, only if you do not let me see it at once I shall die at your feet.”
“There it is,” said Susy, “a full column! The idea of anyone written of in such terms being proposed to by Thomas Barlowe! Such impudence indeed!”