“Oho! Then he is another of those upon whom you have found it impossible to smile. Well, I cannot blame him, poor fellow.” And she kissed her daughter’s forehead. “The idea of your having never—but why did Alice never allude to this affair? She gave me an account of all the others.”
“I can’t say,” replied Mary, leaving her mother’s lap for the lounge.
“So you did not fancy him. Of course not, of course not. He is a handsome fellow,—very; but really, I cannot see how he could have had the hardihood to make love to you while maintaining his incognito, as Alice writes that he still does.”
“Hardihood in making love is just what some girls would like.”
“Of course,—some girls; but not a girl brought up as you have been. Did he make no apology? Yes? Well, that was to his honor. He is a gentleman, there can be no doubt about that. And you?”
Mary was lying at full length upon the lounge. “I forgave him,” said she, averting her face.
“Ah, we can’t help that, my daughter. A woman would not be a woman unless”—and reminiscent lights and shadows flitted across her face—“unless she kept a soft place in her heart for every man who ever loved her. But forgiveness and love are different parts of speech.”
No answer.
“To pardon, I say, and to love, are different things,” repeated she; and her heart began to throb, she hardly knew why.
“Sometimes,” said Mary, covering her face with her hands.