Miss G.—"O yes, Allen! You know I often own up."
Mr. R.—"No, I don't."
Miss G.—"Oh, how can you bear to say so? When I'm rash, or anything of that kind, you know I acknowledge it."
Mr. R.—"Do you acknowledge it now?"
Miss G.—"Why, how can I, when I haven't been rash? What have I been rash about?"
Mr. R.—"About the cigar-case, for example."
Miss G.—"Oh! That! That was a great while ago! I thought you meant something quite recent." A sound as of the approaching train is heard in the distance. She gives a start, and then leaves her chair again for one a little nearer his. "I thought perhaps you meant about—last night."
Mr. R.—"Well?"
Miss G., very judicially.—"I don't think it was rash exactly. No, not rash. It might not have been very kind not to—to—trust you more, when I knew that you didn't mean anything; but— No, I took the only course I could. Nobody could have done differently under the circumstances. But if I caused you any pain, I'm very sorry; O yes, very sorry indeed. But I was not precipitate, and I know I did right. At least I tried to act for the best. Don't you believe I did?"
Mr. R.—"Why, if you have no doubt upon the subject, my opinion is of no consequence."