He brought her back to the chair. She took Agatha’s letter from the pocket of her fur cloak, and handed it to him with a faint attempt to be tragic. “Read that,” she said. “And never speak to me again. All is over between us.” He took it curiously, and turned it to look at the signature. “Aha!” he said, “my golden idol has been making mischief, has she?” “There!” exclaimed Henrietta. “You have said it to my face! You have convicted yourself out of your own mouth!” “Wait a moment, my dear. I have not read the letter yet.” He rose and walked to and fro through the room, reading. She watched him, angrily confident that she should presently see him change countenance. Suddenly he drooped as if his spine had partly given way; and in this ungraceful attitude he read the remainder of the letter. When he had finished he threw it on the table, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and roared with laughter, huddling himself together as if he could concentrate the joke by collecting himself into the smallest possible compass. Henrietta, speechless with indignation, could only look her feelings. At last he came and sat down beside her. “And so,” he said, “on receiving this you rushed out in the cold and came all the way to Lyvern. Now, it seems to me that you must either love me very much--” “I don’t. I hate you.” “Or else love yourself very much.” “Oh!” And she wept afresh. “You are a selfish brute, and you do just as you like without considering anyone else. No one ever thinks of me. And now you won’t even take the trouble to deny that shameful letter.” “Why should I deny it? It is true. Do you not see the irony of all this? I amuse myself by paying a few compliments to a schoolgirl for whom I do not care two straws more than for any agreeable and passably clever woman I meet. Nevertheless, I occasionally feel a pang of remorse because I think that she may love me seriously, although I am only playing with her. I pity the poor heart I have wantonly ensnared. And, all the time, she is pitying me for exactly the same reason! She is conscience-stricken because she is only indulging in the luxury of being adored ‘by far the cleverest man she has ever met,’ and is as heart-whole as I am! Ha, ha! That is the basis of the religion of love of which poets are the high-priests. Each worshipper knows that his own love is either a transient passion or a sham copied from his favorite poem; but he believes honestly in the love of others for him. Ho, ho! Is it not a silly world, my dear?” “You had no right to make love to Agatha. You have no right to make love to anyone but me; and I won’t bear it.” “You are angry because Agatha has infringed your monopoly. Always monopoly! Why, you silly girl, do you suppose that I belong to you, body and soul?--that I may not be moved except by your affection, or think except of your beauty?” “You may call me as many names as you please, but you have no right to make love to Agatha.”