"Yes," she went on, "she hates you, though not as--But that will keep. But what I am going to say will indeed surprise you. I am going to treat you with unheard-of generosity--to furnish you myself with the necessary weapons. Here they are. You are perfectly correct in your surmises. I _did_ open the envelopes and change their contents, not out of mischief, but from a far deeper motive; and I did, and have done, and meant to do all I possibly could to mislead that silly woman and her daughter into believing you were in love with the girl, and on the point of proposing to her; in which scheme I persuaded Trixie to join me, even as far as I remember, before they came. There, now, what do you say to that?" "Why do you tell it me?" he asked. "If it is with any idea that your confession may force me to be silent, I--" "Nonsense," she said. "It is not a confession; that word is associated with penitence and coming for forgiveness. _I_ am not penitent. I glory in what I have done. I triumph in it. And you will be silent. You cannot tell the story without making that girl a laughing-stock, even if people believed you--which I doubt--for you would scarcely like to say you were publishing what you call my `confession.' And nothing, no word or sentence I have said to Mrs Wentworth, but could be naturally and innocently explained, and every one can see what a fool she is. And still more, you cannot tell the story without incriminating Trixie. Indeed, the moment I find you telling it, _I_ shall tell her part of it. That would be very nice; your own cousin, the daughter, of the relatives you owe so much kindness to. For you know the Squire would be capable of turning her out-of-doors for such dishonourable breach of hospitality to guests." It was all quite true. "Why have you told me, then?" he asked. "Because I wanted to come to an understanding; to show you that you had better decide not to tell I shall not tell, for the story is nothing to me. I am leaving Grey Fells at once, and I don't think I care to return. I am sick of Trixie's atrocious temper, and I have got what I stayed for." "What was that?" he added. There was a curious fascination about the girl, with her entire absence of principle and absolute indifference to his opinion. "My revenge," she said quietly. "Not as much as I could have wished. I should not be easily satisfied; but it is better than nothing. I have made you suffer. I have lowered you in your own estimation. I have touched you in a tender part, for you _know_ that Imogen Wentworth's sunny girlhood is gone--gone for ever; she will never be the same again, and all through _you_?" He winced, and she saw it. "And why, may I ask, mystery of mysteries, have you condescended to this flattering interest in me? When and how did I incur the honour of offending you?"