To lash the rascal naked through the world!”
St George was the soul of white-handed honor. He burned Maybelle’s letter to ashes, and no soul ever heard from him that she had stooped from her pedestal of womanly reticence to write such words.
And he wrote back, courteously:
“I am sorry that you have misunderstood me, but your brother was right. I never had any serious intentions toward you, and thought it understood on both sides that we were engaged in a very harmless flirtation. Need I remind you that I never sought you, and that my brief visit at your home was as your brother’s friend, and at his repeated solicitation?
“I thank you for the regard you have expressed for me, but I hope you will withdraw it and bestow the treasure of your love on one more able to reciprocate the gift. It may be best for me to own that my heart is irrevocably given elsewhere, and that I shall soon lead a bride to the altar.”
And so with cruel kindness St. George strove to pluck the thorn of love from Maybelle’s heart.
“For love is often a thorny flower,
It breaks, and we bleed and smart;
The blossom falls at the fairest,
And the thorn runs into the heart.”