“Yes, I remember.”
“If you are quite resolved not to marry me——”
“You have never told me why?” She says it faintly, glancing at him with that new and most uncharacteristic shiftiness which she feels that his all-noticing eye must already have observed.
“If you wish I will tell you.”
“No!” she answers with almost inaudible haste. “It is enough for me that you no longer wish it! I do not doubt that you have good reasons; but”—growing more distinct in a feverish sophistry of desire to put herself in the right—“let it be clearly understood that it is not I who go back from the bargain! I was—I am willing to fulfil it.”
“Thank you.”
The courteous irony of his gratitude stings her back into muteness; and again they walk on, unconscious of time or distance.
“I am willing to tell you what I have done, what happened, how it came about!”
“But I am not willing to hear.”