"Ah, you do not know yourself. You have lived all your life in the neighbourhood of that Mr. Morton who just went out, and you feel pity for his illness. He does indeed look very ill—but you have yet to learn what it is to love. I ask the high favour of being permitted to attempt the office of—of—of—"
"Of teaching me!" said Charlotte with a smile." {sic}
"No—that word is too presumptuous—too coarse—"
"Hear me, Mr. Delafield," said Miss Henley after a short pause, during which she seemed to have experienced some deep and perhaps painful emotions—"I cannot undertake to give you a reason for my conduct—very possibly I have no good one; but I feel that I should be doing you injustice by encouraging what you are pleased to call hopes—I wish to be understood now, as saying that I cannot consent to your expecting that I should ever become your wife."
Delafield was certainly astonished at this refusal, which was given in that still, decided manner that admits of little opposition. He had long been accustomed to apprehend a sudden acceptance, and had been in the habit of strictly guarding both his manner and his language, lest something that he did or said might justify expectations that would have been out of his power to fulfil; but now, when, for the first time, he had ventured a direct offer, he met with a rejection that possessed all the characteristics of sincerity, he was, in truth, utterly astounded. After taking a sufficient time to collect in some degree his faculties, he came to the conclusion that he had been too precipitate, and had urged the suit too far, and too hastily.
"Such may be your sentiments now, Miss Henley," he said, "but you may alter them in time: you are not called on for a definite answer."
"If not by you, I am by truth, Mr. Delafield. It would be wrong to lead you to expect what can never—"
"Never?" said Delafield—"you cannot speak so decidedly."
"I do, indeed I do," returned Charlotte firmly.
"I have not deceived myself in believing you to be disengaged, Miss Henley?"