“I did not leave of my own accord,” she replied. “I was discharged because you kept me late, and I broke the rules.”
“But you did not send me your address,” I exclaimed reproachfully.
“I had no object in doing so,” she responded, in a wearied voice, as if the effort of speaking were too much for her.
“You acted cruelly—very cruelly,” I said.
“No, I scarcely think that,” she protested. “I told you quite plainly that we could be but mere acquaintances in future.”
“But I cannot understand you,” I cried, dismayed. “What have I done to deserve your contempt, Muriel?”
“Nothing,” she responded coldly. “I do not hold you in contempt.”
“But you love another!” I cried quickly, recollecting her companion of the previous night.
“And if I do,” she answered, “it is only my own concern, I suppose.”
“No!” I cried fiercely. “It is mine, for I alone love you truly and honestly. This man you love is a knave—a scoundrel—a—”