“There are so few men of whom anything complimentary can be said, that there is little marvel we should shun candid women. It would have done me good had you continued your downright part for a week or two; you would have taught me to know some of my weaknesses. As it is, I should say I have not lost less than three pounds weight of conceit since yesterday.”
“But what have I lost? First impressions are everything—and I question if you will ever overcome the dislike of me I tried to produce.”
“I am not so stubborn as you think. But you hate compliments, and so I’ll hold my tongue, lest I should be misconstrued.”
To this she made no reply; but, leaving her chair, went to the window, where she stood for a minute or two. I could not help watching her fine figure with admiration. Had Conny been present I could not have admired Theresa less. I had already heard and seen enough to enable me to judge how odious the character she had assumed must have been to her, and the glad relief with which she had flung it aside. But what resolution was hers to give her strength to carry out so singular an imposture! What force of character needful to beat down and silence those instincts which, as certainly as she was a woman, would clamour for quite a different construction from what she was determined I should put upon her nature!
“I desired the footman,” said she, approaching me, “to apologise to you this morning; but in order to get him to do so, I had to invent a little fable, which, no doubt, you will call a fib. I told him you were not the gentleman I had expected—leaving him to make out the riddle as his Irish brains best could. In one sense, you are not the gentleman I had expected. Still, unavoidable as the equivocation was, it annoys me intensely. True it is that one folly begets another, and a worse. I must devise some expiation. Exact some penance—I promise you shall be obeyed.”
Now where was my wit, that I didn’t say something handsome? ’Twas ever thus. A capital answer occurred next day. But it was too late.
“I want nothing but your good opinion. I have innocently put you to a great deal of trouble. All I require is your forgiveness for having made you very uneasy.”
“Then let us shake hands and be good friends; as cousins we ought to like each other. And since there is no likelihood of our being married, there is no reason why we should be enemies.”
I pressed her hand warmly, laughing at her queer speech, and her blunt manner; but admiring too.
At this moment the door opened, and in came my uncle, who had evidently entered the house by one of the side doors.