I told her “Yes,” with a drooping voice.
“The last of them as well?” said she.
I knew where we were now; yet I would not lie to her either. “I gave them all without afterthought,” I said, “as I supposed that you would read them. I see no harm in any.”
“I will be differently made,” said she. “I thank God I am differently made. It was not a fit letter to be shown me. It was not fit to be written.”
“I think you are speaking of your own friend, Barbara Grant?” said I.
“There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a fancied friend,” said she, quoting my own expression.
“I think it is sometimes the friendship that was fancied!” I cried. “What kind of justice do you call this, to blame me for some words that a tomfool of a madcap lass has written down upon a piece of paper? You know yourself with what respect I have behaved—and would do always.”
“Yet you would show me that same letter!” says she. “I want no such friends. I can be doing very well, Mr. Balfour, without her—or you.”
“This is your fine gratitude!” says I.
“I am very much obliged to you,” said she. “I will be asking you to take away your—letters.” She seemed to choke upon the word, so that it sounded like an oath.