"Oh, but it would be quite true. What do I know about you? I know you are young Mr Ridley, a gentleman, far, oh, far above me. All the world knows that; and I don't know what I know more."
"You know I love you, Lily, which is what no one knows but you."
"Oh," she said, with a toss of her head, "I am not so sure about that. I know what you say; but what young men say and what they feel is very different."
"Who taught you that, Lily? Can you look at me, and then tell me that you think I don't feel what I say?"
"Oh, as for that—but every book you ever open says so, and all the old people say so; they ought to know. Never believe a lad, Miss Prentice says—and far more when it's a gentleman."
"Did you get my letter, Lily?"
"Oh, yes, I got your letter; I couldn't quite read it all. Did you ever learn to write, Mr Ridley? or is it taught in the grand schools? For a long time I couldn't tell who sent it," said Lily, telling her little fib with a steady look at him, and all the innocence in the world.
"Then I suppose heaps of other people write you letters like that?"
Lily laughed with malice and enjoyment of the fun. "Did you think that you were the only one that ever said he cared for me?" she said, with merry scorn. As for Roger, he was quite desperate, and did not know how to meet this levity, which broke his heart.
"You should not take it so easily," he said, "for Lily, but for—Providence—it would have been the last letter I ever wrote to you or any one. I was as nearly as possible killed to-day."