And now, Jack, I must address one serious paragraph particularly to thee.
I have not yet touched upon cohabitation—her uncle’s mediation she does not absolutely discredit, as I had the pleasure to find by one hint in this conversation—yet she suspects my future views, and has doubt about Mennell and Tomlinson.
I do say, if she come fairly at her lights, at her clues, or what shall I call them? her penetration is wonderful.
But if she do not come at them fairly, then is her incredulity, then is her antipathy to me evidently accounted for.
I will speak out—thou couldst not, surely, play me booty, Jack?—Surely thou couldst not let thy weak pity for her lead thee to an unpardonable breach of trust to thy friend, who has been so unreserved in his communications to thee?
I cannot believe thee capable of such a baseness. Satisfy me, however, upon this head. I must make a cursed figure in her eye, vowing and protesting, as I shall not scruple occasionally to vow and protest, if all the time she has had unquestionable informations of my perfidy. I know thou as little fearest me, as I do thee, if any point of manhood; and wilt scorn to deny it, if thou hast done it, when thus home-pressed.
And here I have a good mind to stop, and write no farther, till I have thy answer.
And so I will.
MONDAY MORN. PAST THREE.