"We were placed in an impossible position by being thus asked to marry against our will. I did not ever think of you in that way—think of loving you, I mean. And you have made it plain enough, of course, that you do not love me. On the contrary—"
"Of course," she echoed, in a queer, tired voice. "On the contrary."
I somehow came to a stop, and sat mutely seeking words. At last, however, I broke the silence.
"Then," I said, making an effort to speak lightly and easily, "we understand each other now."—
"Yes," she answered; "we understand each other now."
I rose, for there seemed nothing more to be said, and yet feeling that I was no further on—that there was something yet misunderstood between us.
"And we are friends again, Isabella."
I held out my hand, and, after a momentary pause, she placed her fingers in it. They were cold.—"Yes, I suppose so," she said, and her lips were quivering.
I left her slowly, and with a feeling of reluctance. My way lay over the gate, where fourteen years earlier I had made that mistake. As I climbed it, I looked back. Isabella had turned sideways on the seat, and her face was hidden in her arms folded on the back of it. She seemed to be weeping. I stood for a minute or two in indecision. Then, remembering how she disliked me, went slowly on to the stable, and found my horse.