'I cannot say. I wrote letter after letter, till, getting no answer, I was obliged to think it was in vain; and I too stopped writing.'
'Where did you direct your letters?'
'Not to your address here, which I did not know. I enclosed them to my father, supposing he did know it, and begged him to forward them.'
'I never got them,' said the colonel, with that same dry accentuation. It implied doubt of somebody; and could Pitt blame him? He kept a mortified silence for a few minutes. He felt terribly put in the wrong, and undeservedly; and—but he tried not to think.
'I am afraid to ask, what you thought of me, sir?'
'Well, I confess, I thought it was not just like the old William Dallas that I used to know; or rather, not like the young William. I supposed you had grown old; and with age comes wisdom. That is the natural course of things.'
'You did me injustice, Colonel Gainsborough.'
'I am willing to think it. But it is somewhat difficult.'
'Take my word at least for this. I have never forgotten. I have never neglected. I sought for you as long as possible, and in every way that was possible, whenever I was in this country. I left off writing, but it was because writing seemed useless. I have come now in pursuance of my old promise; come on the mere chance of finding you; which, however, I was determined to do.'
'Your promise?'