"Force you?" he repeated. "Did I say that? I don't know what I am talking about; I don't know what I am doing. You are right and I am wrong. I am a miserable wretch, Lucilla—I am utterly unworthy of you. It would be better for you if you never saw me again!" He paused; and taking me by both hands, looked earnestly and sadly into my face. "Good night, my dear!" he said—and suddenly dropped my hands, and turned away to go out.
I stopped him. "Going already?" I said. "It is not late yet.
"It is best for me to go."
"Why?"
"I am in wretched spirits. It is better for me to be by myself."
"Don't say that! It sounds like a reproach to me."
"On the contrary, it is all my fault. Good night!"
I refused to say good night—I refused to let him go. His wanting to go was in itself a reproach to me. He had never done it before. I asked him to sit down again.
He shook his head.
"For ten minutes!"