“I always answer the letters I receive.”
“If she loved me she would have replied by return of post.”
“Oh, you mustn’t rush to severe conclusions. A word will explain everything, no doubt.”
“I can imagine no excuse for her silence,” I exclaimed sulkily. “Would I have treated her so? Had I received a letter from her, she would have had my answer before the ink upon her pen was dry. I hate to be neglected. People neglect those they despise. She very well knows how a letter would have gratified me, and nothing but an abominable theory of heartlessness,” I cried, “can account for her neglect.”
It was fortunate for my horse that I wore no spurs, or God knows where I should have driven them to, with the violent plunge I gave with my legs as I spoke.
“All this is rank heresy,” said Theresa, laughing, “for which, on your return, you will be judged, sentenced, and executed.”
“It is galling truth,” I answered; “but if she thinks I care, she is very much mistaken.”
“Then let us suppose she cares.”
“Neither of us cares. She never liked me. It amused her to hear my nonsense; though, for anything I know, I may barely have saved myself from being repulsive. A woman detests to be made love to by the man she dislikes. Why did she encourage me? A look would have kept me off; a sneer dispersed me. I’m not a burr. I am not one of those adhesive animals whom no hints, no open-mouthed aversion, can dislodge. I am by nature so sensitive, that it is now a miracle to me how I contrived to tell her what feelings I had, before I was sure she was willing to hear them.”
“You must make allowances,” said Theresa, who seemed greatly amused. “You confessed that Conny wasn’t in love with you, and you have therefore no right to expect any favour from her.”