“But you’ll allow that she might have answered my letter.”
“And you’ll allow that there is nothing more mortifying than to write a letter and receive no answer.”
Yes; that also could be allowed.
“It is gross rudeness,” I continued, “even in a stranger whose reply you don’t care twopence about. But in a relation—a cousin—a young lady—a girl who knows that the writer of the letter she receives with silent contempt is—is—is——”
Words failed me.
“Conny will explain when you meet.”
“I don’t care whether she does or not,” I exclaimed. “My love has received a blow—a wound—if it dies the blood is on her head.”
“Nonsense!” cried Theresa. “A lover’s quarrel.”
I felt too indignant to answer. So we jogged on in silence for some minutes, I as insensible to the abounding beauties of the evening, as if I had worn green spectacles.