“She has deceived you,” he continued, “and if you can forgive her, ought not we, her parents, to do so? But I must think awhile, and confer with my wife before I act. Conny ought to know the torture of suspense, and be made to feel a little the grief and fear she has caused us. It is fortunate you have returned, for I could not do without you at the bank now.” It was clear to me that the greatest kindness I could do him was to leave him alone. I therefore declined his invitation to breakfast, and returned to my lodgings, where breakfast awaited me, and then repaired to the bank. Mr. Spratling was very glad to see me, and instantly began to talk of Curling. Wasn’t it wonderful? Wasn’t he cunning, just? Only the day before he had run away with Miss Hargrave, he had said he meant to ask the governor for a holiday, when Mr. Charles came back. “He seemed to be afraid of meeting you,” Mr. Spratling told me. “He asked Mr. Hargrave several times when you were expected. I daresay he thought you would find out his game.” Perhaps he did. Perhaps in his quiet, cautious way, he was jealous of Conny, and thought if he should give me time to make love to her again, I might win her away from him. He had very well known that I had her mamma on my side; that if my uncle had suspected his daughter’s attachment, I should have had him on my side too; that I could claim to be a gentleman; that I was a prospective partner in the bank; in a word, that I was hedged about with every condition calculated to secure me a triumph; whilst he on his side had literally nothing whatever to make him hopeful but Conny’s promises, which caprice might at any moment cause her to break. I looked at his vacant stool, and thought of him sitting there and laughing internally at the trick he and Conny were playing me; of the grinning that must have gone on behind my back, when my cousin mockingly repeated the language I had addressed to her, and mimicked the attitudes of entreaty which I had no doubt unconsciously thrown myself into whilst begging her to tell me that-- Pshaw! never mind. It is all past. I never really loved her. I thought her bewitchingly pretty, and wanted to possess her; I thought it would be the agreeablest pastime to play with her sunny hair, and trace my haunting face in her deep eyes. It was a young man’s fancy. I fancied her. But could that mean I _loved_ her, when the first puff that came blew my flame out, and left my heart free for thy clearer radiance, my T.?