“He did not,” said Arthur.
“Did he speak of me, sir—did he speak of me—in what way did he speak of me?”
“Really,” said Arthur, in an expostulating manner.
“Suppose you were my brother, sir, and suppose I loved that man, your friend; did he speak of me in such a way as you would wish for the man to speak whom your sister loved? You see I am plain with you—be you honest with me; Yes or no.”
“I must decline to answer,” said Arthur.
“And you profess to be in love; nay, you need not start. Do you think I do not know your secret? Do you think I do not know how many sleepless nights you have spent; how you have been tossed between hope and fear; how you have cursed your lot, and consoled yourself with poetic dreams, and the voice of her you love? I tell you my happiness and all my hopes are at stake. I know well enough—my own instincts tell me that he did but trifle with my love, and your silence only confirms it. Now that wealth falls in to fill up the scale and weigh down the balance, I should despise myself if I accepted compromise; for I very nearly hate him as it is; but I seek for full satisfaction. I will ask you but one more question. Did he speak of me before he left England as you would speak to a friend who had your confidence concerning Phœbe?”
“No, he did not,” said Arthur, earnestly.
“Thank you,” said Amy, “thank you, Mr. Phillips, sincerely; and now may I beg that you never repeat what has passed in this conversation?”
“You may rely upon me,” said Arthur.
Amy put out her hand, and said good-bye, and left the artist wondering at her extraordinary conduct.