After a few minutes’ silence, I began again. “I did not give you credit for it, Clara,” I said. “Thought you were not going to speak to me any more,” she said.
“Oh, it’s too bad,” I whispered; “but you will be sorry for it some day.”
“No, I sha’n’t, you little goose you. It was not your note at all,” she said. “I only did it to tease you, and serve you out for trying to deceive me, who have always tried to be a friend to you from the very first.”
“Oh, my own, dear, darling Clara,” I cried, in a whisper, “is this true? Then I’ll never, never do anything without you again, and tell you everything; and am not cross a bit.”
“But I am,” she cried; “see what names you have been calling me.”
“Ah, but see how agonising it was, dear,” I whispered. “Only think of what you made me suffer. I declare I shall burst out into a fit of hysterical crying directly.”
“No, no, don’t do that,” said Clara. “Then make haste, and tell me what he said, so as to change my thoughts.”
“Guess,” said Clara, sliding my own dear little note into my hand once again.
“Oh, pray, pray tell me,” I whispered. “Don’t, whatever you do, don’t tease me any more. I shall die if you do.”
“No, don’t,” she said, mockingly, “for poor Achille’s sake.”