The two brothers exchanged meaning glances. I knew very well what was in their minds, but not the shadow, not the ghost of a protest arose from my soul. As Theresa wasn’t going to see Conny, I did not press my society upon my uncles; so it ended in their leaving the house after dinner, whilst my aunt, Theresa, and your servant remained at home to look after one another. My aunt could talk of nothing but the dreadful blow Conny had dealt her pride, and the wretched person she had introduced into the family. I am very patient, and have never in my life been considered unsympathetic: but upon my word, I began to grow very sick of hearing my aunt twanging, eternally twanging, that one groaning string. Having fruitlessly endeavoured to get her to talk of something else, I began to cast about for some stratagem to induce her to leave my cousin and me alone. However, to my great delight, she burst into tears in the middle of a violent attack on Curling, and, probably feeling hysterical, and not choosing to show her ankles to Theresa, she hastened out of the room. “This is very sad,” said Theresa. “To everybody,” I answered; “to those who have to feel and to those who have to hear.” “I can’t conceive how my aunt could have been so completely tricked. Surely she must have known that Conny was attached to Mr. Curling.” “We have all been made fools of,” I answered. “I consider that you have been the worst treated,” she said, with a little laugh. “Why do you think so?” “Because I can’t imagine anything more mortifying than to be jilted.” “My dear Theresa, you are labouring under an afflicting delusion. I have not been jilted. I don’t say I have been well treated; for Conny ought never to have permitted me to express my admiration for her face--an admiration,” I added, emphatically, gazing at her, steadily, “which I still preserve, _absolutely_ indifferent as she is to me--she ought never to have encouraged me, I say, when she was all the time engaged to her clerk. But I have observed, several times, and will repeat the observation once more, that I forgive her. I forgive her entirely--without reservation--_sans arrière pensée_--which, I take it upon myself to say, would be impossible had I ever loved her. You would be amazed were you to know with what cold-blooded unconcern I received the news of her elopement. My sympathy was for her parents; not a pang of any kind or description visited me for myself.” “I daresay she knew how completely you mistook your feelings.... Shall we go into the grounds. This room is very close.” “With pleasure,” said I, and forth we strolled. A warm August evening it was, but not untempered with cool draughts of air, which stirred the flowers from time to time and set the stray hairs about Theresa’s forehead dancing.