“I did not know that, my dearest love, or I would not have asked you to do it; but I am the more obliged to you for your ready compliance.”
“Obliged!—Oh, my dear, I am sure you could not be the least obliged to me, for I know I played it horridly: I hate flattery.”
“I am convinced of that, my dear, and therefore I never flatter: you know I did not say that you played as well the last time as the first, did I?”
“No, I did not say you did,” cried Griselda, and her colour rose as she spoke: she tuned her harp with some precipitation—“This harp is terribly out of tune.”
“Is it? I did not perceive it.”
“Did not you, indeed? I am sorry for that.”
“Why so, my dear?”
“Because, my dear, I own that I would rather have had the blame thrown on my harp than upon myself.”
“Blame? my love!—But I threw no blame either on you or your harp. I cannot recollect saying even a syllable that implied blame.”
“No, my dear, you did not say a syllable; but in some cases the silence of those we love is the worst, the most mortifying species of blame.”