"Oh! what can you not do?"
"I do not know."
"Teach him to forgive!"
Laetitia's brows were heavy and Clara forbore to torment her.
She would not descend to the family breakfast-table. Clara would fain have stayed to drink tea with her in her own room, but a last act of conformity was demanded of the liberated young lady. She promised to run up the moment breakfast was over. Not unnaturally, therefore, Laetitia supposed it to be she to whom she gave admission, half an hour later, with a glad cry of, "Come in, dear."
The knock had sounded like Clara's.
Sir Willoughby entered.
He stepped forward. He seized her hands. "Dear!" he said.
"You cannot withdraw that. You call me dear. I am, I must be dear to you. The word is out, by accident or not, but, by heaven, I have it and I give it up to no one. And love me or not—marry me, and my love will bring it back to you. You have taught me I am not so strong. I must have you by my side. You have powers I did not credit you with."
"You are mistaken in me, Sir Willoughby." Laetitia said feebly, outworn as she was.