He stared at her.
“I don’t know it; I think you beautiful.”
“Wait till you see someone else and you will change your mind,” she snapped, flushing.
“And you are going to come out,” he went on hastily.
“Yes, at a fancy ball in this Plantagenet lady’s dress, but I almost wish I was—to go out instead—like her.”
“And I daresay you will soon be married,” he blurted, losing his head for she bewildered him.
“Married! Oh! you idiot. Do you know what marriage means—to a woman? Married! I can bear no more of this. Goodbye,” and turning she walked, or rather ran into the darkness, leaving him amazed and alone.
This was the last time that Godfrey spoke with Isobel for a long while. Next morning he received a note addressed in her clear and peculiar writing, which from the angular formation of the letters and their regularity, at a distance looked not unlike a sheet of figures.
It was short and ran:—
Dear Old Godfrey,—Don’t be vexed with me because I was so cross this evening. Something in that old church upset me, and you know I have a dreadful temper. I didn’t mean anything I said. I daresay it is a good thing you should go away and see the world instead of sticking in this horrid place. Leave your address with Mother Parsons, and I will write to you; but mind you answer my letters or I shan’t write any more. Good-bye, old boy.