I was leaving the drawing-room, _en route_ for the library, where I expected to find pen and paper, when I met my cousin face to face. She blushed and stood still--I think she had imagined I had gone out with her father--then promptly held out her hand, which you may believe I took readily enough. “What do you think of me?” she asked. “What, but that you are a very fine actress, and acquitted yourself to perfection in as difficult a part as you could have chosen.” “If you had only told me that you were in love with Conny, I should have been as anxious as papa to make you welcome,” she said. “We are both in an explanatory humour,” I replied, “so let us sit down and talk the matter out.” She seated herself--very differently, I promise you, from the awkward fashion in which she had hitherto performed that action--her manner, indeed, was abrupt, but that was owing to nervousness; for the rest, she was as subdued as Katherine after five acts of Petruchio. “Your father tells me,” said I, “you were under the impression I had come here to make love to you on Stock Exchange principles, and marry you as a commercial undertaking. Nothing under yonder sky could be wider from the truth than that.” “When papa informed me of your proposed visit,” she answered, keeping her eyes bent downwards--and now that she was womanly and well-behaved, I could appreciate the surprising length of her eyelashes, and the abundant folds of her rich brown hair--“he quite gave me to understand that it was his and Tom’s wish that I should marry you. I said nothing--but I inwardly vowed that no earthly power should induce me to accept a man’s hand under any other conditions than my own. I did not wish to pain papa by expressing the opinions I felt, and so resolved to make you disgusted with me, and drive you out of the house as soon as possible.” “You succeeded in everything.” “I am very sorry,” she continued, blushing again, though meeting my eyes; “you didn’t deserve such bad treatment. Had you been a fop, or a silly fellow, I should not regret tormenting you. But you are neither, and bore your sufferings so good-naturedly, that my conscience pricked me every time I forced a sneer, or answered you rudely.” “Had you treated me twenty times more rudely than you did,” I answered, “you have said more than enough to entitle you to the fullest forgiveness. I applaud your motives highly, and think so well of your resolution not to be made love to without your consent, that I am only surprised you should have behaved with so much moderation.” “Don’t be ironical. Moderation! Think of O’Twist last night!” “Poor O’Twist! had I not thought him mad, I should have thrashed him. But I was really afraid not only to raise my hand, but even to show my indignation, not knowing what might become of me, should the lunatic’s rage be excited!”