“But it is not my intention to trouble you with matters that concern me alone,” he pursued, without varying his intonations. “As I anticipated, Mr. Chilton declines explaining the ugly story relative to his earlier career of dissipation and deceit, which I forwarded to you. He indulges, instead, in a tirade of personal abuse touching my right to control you, declaring his purpose to pursue you with letters and attentions until he shall be discarded by yourself. We will not stay to discuss the gentlemanliness and delicacy of his behavior in this regard. I merely declare, that, having had a fair opportunity of honest confession or denial of statements detrimental to his principles and pursuits, and having shirked both, he has placed himself outside the pale of respectful consideration. Has he written to you since his receipt of my letter?”
“No!”
Mabel was staring at a figure in the carpet, on a line with her feet. Had she regarded her brother never so attentively, she would have detected no change in his countenance. He did not prepare questions without also studying how to deliver them.
“I am glad he has the moral decency to forbear carrying out his threat of persecution.”
He could say it with the greater hardihood in the remembrance that the “persecution” had been attempted.
“I wish he had written!” rejoined Mabel, abruptly, but without passion. “He was right to protest against accepting his dismissal from any other than myself.”
She had not removed her eyes from the spot on the carpet, or lowered the paper screen. She looked like a statue and spoke like an automaton.
Mr. Aylett's nostrils quivered ominously.
“Is it your wish to recommence the correspondence I have ended?”
“You know that I would strike off my right hand sooner than do it. But if he had written to me, I should have answered his letter, if it had been only to bid him farewell. Since he has not chosen to do this, I cannot take the initiative.”