“I—I’m so sorry, Mr. Trevor—I’m very sorry; but I couldn’t—I can’t, indeed, say anything but—but just how sorry I am, and how much obliged for your liking me—and—it could not be.” And Miss Violet Darkwell, with a very beautiful and bright colour, and eyes that looked darker than ever, stood up to go.
“I—pray don’t—I—I’m sure you misunderstood me—I think I could—I—do pray—just a minute,” said Vane Trevor, awfully confounded.
Miss Darkwell waited where she stood, looking down upon the carpet.
“I—I don’t want you to answer me now; I—I’d rather you didn’t. I—I—you’ll not answer me for a week. I—I’d rather you thought it over just a little—pray.”
“It would make no difference, I assure you, Mr. Trevor. It would merely prolong what is very painful to me. It is very kind of you to think so well of me, and I’m very much obliged; but I think I’ll go.” And she extended her hand to take leave, and was on the point of going.
“But really, Miss Darkwell,” said Mr. Trevor, who began to feel a little insulted, and to remember the Trevors, the Vanes, and the historic fame of Revington, “I—I don’t quite see—I think I—I—I do think I have a right to—to some explanation.”
“There’s nothing to explain; I’ve said everything,” said Miss Vi very quietly.
“That’s very easy, of course, to say; but I—I don’t think it’s using a fellow quite⸺”
“Did I ever lead you to think I thought otherwise?” exclaimed Miss Violet with a grave but fearless glance.
There was a pause. Trevor was angry, and looked it. At last he said—