“That is, except gratitude—gratitude for all his kindness to Erasmus, and for his partiality to me—gratitude I certainly feel.”
“And esteem?”
“Yes; to be sure, esteem.”
“And I think,” continued her mother, “that before he committed this crime of proposing for you, Rosamond, you used to show some of the indignation of a good friend against those ungrateful people who used him so ill.
“Indignation! Yes,” interrupted Rosamond, “who could avoid feeling indignation?”
“And pity?—I think I have heard you express pity for poor Mr. Gresham.”
“Well, ma’am, because he really was very much to be pitied—don’t you think so?”
“I do—and pity—” said Mrs. Percy, smiling.
“No, indeed, mother, you need not smile—nor you, Caroline; for the sort of pity which I feel is not—it was merely pity by itself, plain pity: why should people imagine and insist upon it, that more is felt than expressed?”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Percy, “I do not insist upon your feeling more than you really do; but let us see—you are in a state of absolute indifference, and yet you feel esteem, indignation, pity—how is this, Rosamond? How can this be?”