Mr. R., in amazement.—"How did I mortify you? I thought that I treated you with all the tenderness and affection that a decent regard for the feelings of others would allow. I was ashamed to find I couldn't keep away from you."
Miss G.—"O, you were attentive enough, Allen; nobody denies that. Attentive enough in non-essentials. O yes!"
Mr. R.—"Well, what vital matters did I fail in? I'm sure I can't remember."
Miss G.—"I dare say! I dare say they won't appear vital to you, Allen. Nothing does. And if I had told you, I should have been met with ridicule, I suppose. But I knew better than to tell; I respected myself too much."
Mr. R.—"But now you mustn't respect yourself quite so much, dearest. And I promise you I won't laugh at the most serious thing. I'm in no humour for it. If it were a matter of life and death, even, I can assure you that it wouldn't bring a smile to my countenance. No, indeed! If you expect me to laugh, now, you must say something particularly funny."
Miss G.—"I was not going to say anything funny; as you call it, and I will say nothing at all, if you talk in that way."
Mr. R.—"Well, I won't, then. But do you know what I suspect, Lucy? I wouldn't mention it to everybody, but I will to you—in strict confidence: I suspect that you're rather ashamed of your grievance, if you have any. I suspect it's nothing at all."
Miss G., very sternly at first, with a rising hysterical inflection.—"Nothing, Allen! Do you call it nothing, to have Mrs. Dawes come out with all that about your accident on your way up the river, and ask me if it didn't frighten me terribly to hear of it, even after it was all over; and I had to say you hadn't told me a word of it? 'Why, Lucy!'"—angrily mimicking Mrs. Dawes—"'you must teach him better than that. I make Mr. Dawes tell me everything.' Little simpleton! And then to have them all laugh—oh dear, it's too much!"
Mr. R.—"Why, my dear Lucy—"