"No," replied she, "I leave the application of the moral to you—you expect to produce a great effect, but the opposition jars on the senses, and produces harshness, not softness, in consequence."
He fixed his eyes on her with a look of deep penetration, as if trying to read her thoughts in her countenance. She continued calmly to contemplate the painting, as if quite engrossed by that object.
"Are you referring entirely to this picture," enquired he, "or to some other design of mine?"
She colored still more deeply, and answered that he best knew if her censure was applicable or not.
"I own I suspect you of speaking metaphorically, Miss Osborne."
She was silent.
"But I think you wrong me," he continued, "do you suppose I should dare flatter myself that you would take any interest in my proceedings, that you would condescend to feel any concern about where I went, with whom I associated—what I was doing. Should you not condemn it as unpardonable impertinence if I presumed thus far."
"Very likely I might, Sir William, but I have an idea that it would not be the first time you had been guilty of impertinence, or expected forgiveness when you were unpardonable."
He smiled.
"I will be very candid, Miss Osborne," said he, "and if I sin in doing so, remember your own accusations are alone to blame for it. I own your caprice and the variations in your conduct towards me, have for a moment made me seek the comfort of contrast in Emma Watson—but it was your own fault—you knew I loved you, and you wished to torment me."