"Oh, yes," answered Elinor between her sobs, "it is much you care either for my anger or your grief, that the first proof you give of your boasted love is to offend those whom I hold in affection and reverence."
"'Twas he provoked me to it," answered Neville, sullenly, "with his tales of my friend yonder, as honest a fellow as walks the earth. Is a man to sit still and listen in silence to a pack of lies told about his friend?"
"Say no more!" commanded Elinor. "I see a man is bound to bear all things for the man to whom he has professed friendship—nothing for the woman to whom he has professed love."
There was little logic in the argument, but it made its mark, for it was addressed not to the mind but to the heart.
"Forgive me!" cried Neville—which was by far the best thing he could have said.
If a woman has anything to forgive, the granting of pardon is a necessity. If she has nothing to forgive, it is a luxury.
"I do," she murmured.
"Perhaps I was rougher of manner than need was."
"Yet 'twas but nature."
"Yes, but nature must be held in check."