"I find, then, my philosophy is totally at fault."
"Wherein, Matilda?" anxiously asked Gerald.
"In this, that I have not been able to make you a convert to my opinions."
"And these are—?" again questioned Gerald, his every pulse throbbing with intense emotion.
"Not to pronounce too harshly on the conduct of others, seeing that we ourselves may stand in much need of lenity of judgment. There might have existed motives for the action of him whom you designate as an assassin, quite as powerful as those which led to YOUR interference, and quite as easily justified to himself."
"But, dearest Matilda—"
"Nay, I have done—I close at once my argument and my philosophy. The humour is past, and I shall no longer attempt to make the worse appear the better cause. I dare say you thought me in earnest," she added, with slight sarcasm, "but a philosophical disquisition between two lovers on the eve of parting for ever, was too novel and piquant a seduction to be resisted."
That "parting for ever" was sufficient to drive all philosophy utterly away from our hero.
"For ever, did you say, Matilda?—no, not for ever; yet, how coldly do you allude to a separation, which, although I trust it will be only temporary, is to me a source of the deepest vexation. You did not manifest this indifference in the early part of our conversation this evening."
"And if there be a change," emphatically yet tenderly returned the beautiful American; "am I the only one changed. Is your manner NOW what it was THEN. Do you already forget at WHAT a moment that conversation was interrupted?"