George looked at me more calmly than before I began to speak, and waited.
"I am very sorry," I said slowly and disconsolately, plaiting up my pocket-handkerchief in my warm fingers. Stealing another glance at him, I added:—
"I did not mean it when I said I hoped I should never see you again. I hope you will continue to come the same as ever, and that you will give no one any cause to suspect what you have told me" (in the same dismal tone, playing with my rings as if my one object in life was to see how near they would come to the ends of my fingers without slipping off. George watched my experiments with the greatest apparent interest). "It is very strange to me," I went on, after a pause, "that you should care for any one whom you have just declared to have no faith in any human being, whom you consider a coquette, and who has not heart enough to know what love means." I stopped, but George made no attempt to reply.
"I am sure that you will change—" Here I was suddenly interrupted.
My companion pushed his chair back, and jumped up impulsively.
"The only hope I have," he cried, "is that I shall change. But just now you must not tell me that you are sure I shall. Oh!" (with a sudden change of manner) "don't mind what I say!"
He walked over to the chimney, where he looked into the bed of coals as if to read something in the glowing fire.
