John Marvel, in reply to an inquiry, wrote that the place was still waiting for me in the office he had mentioned, though he did not state what it was.
"How stupid he is!" I complained. Eleanor Leigh only laughed.
She "did not think him stupid at all, and certainly she did not think I should do so. In fact, she considered him one of the most sensible men she ever knew."
"Why, he could not have done more to keep me in ignorance, if he had tried," I fumed. And she only laughed the more.
"I believe you are jealous of him." Her eyes were dancing in an exasperating way they had. I was consumed with jealousy of everybody; but I would never admit it.
"Jealous of John Marvel! Nonsense! But I believe you were in—you liked him very much?"
"I did," she nodded cheerily. "I do—more than any one I ever knew—almost." And she launched out in a eulogy of John which quite set me on fire.
"Then why did you not marry him?" I was conscious that my head went up and my wrath was rising.
"He never asked me." Her dancing eyes still playing hide and seek with mine.
"I supposed there was some good reason," I said loftily. She vouchsafed no answer—only went on making a chain of daisies, while her dimples came and went, and I went on to make a further fool of myself. I was soon haled up and found myself in that outer darkness, where the cheerful occupation is gnashing of teeth. Like the foolish glass-merchant, I had smashed all my hopes. I walked home through the Vale of Bitterness.