“I forgave you years ago, but it is useless for us to attempt to be friends.” “Not if we forget the past. We have still a future, thank God!” “I can’t forget—I don’t forget,” said Catherine. “You treated me too badly. I felt it very much; I felt it for years.” And then she went on, with her wish to show him that he must not come to her this way, “I can’t begin again—I can’t take it up. Everything is dead and buried. It was too serious; it made a great change in my life. I never expected to see you here.” “Ah, you are angry!” cried Morris, who wished immensely that he could extort some flash of passion from her mildness. In that case he might hope. “No, I am not angry. Anger does not last, that way, for years. But there are other things. Impressions last, when they have been strong. But I can’t talk.” Morris stood stroking his beard, with a clouded eye. “Why have you never married?” he asked abruptly. “You have had opportunities.” “I didn’t wish to marry.” “Yes, you are rich, you are free; you had nothing to gain.” “I had nothing to gain,” said Catherine. Morris looked vaguely round him, and gave a deep sigh. “Well, I was in hopes that we might still have been friends.” “I meant to tell you, by my aunt, in answer to your message—if you had waited for an answer—that it was unnecessary for you to come in that hope.” “Good-bye, then,” said Morris. “Excuse my indiscretion.” He bowed, and she turned away—standing there, averted, with her eyes on the ground, for some moments after she had heard him close the door of the room. In the hall he found Mrs. Penniman, fluttered and eager; she appeared to have been hovering there under the irreconcilable promptings of her curiosity and her dignity. “That was a precious plan of yours!” said Morris, clapping on his hat. “Is she so hard?” asked Mrs. Penniman. “She doesn’t care a button for me—with her confounded little dry manner.” “Was it very dry?” pursued Mrs. Penniman, with solicitude. Morris took no notice of her question; he stood musing an instant, with his hat on. “But why the deuce, then, would she never marry?” “Yes—why indeed?” sighed Mrs. Penniman. And then, as if from a sense of the inadequacy of this explanation, “But you will not despair—you will come back?” “Come back? Damnation!” And Morris Townsend strode out of the house, leaving Mrs. Penniman staring. Catherine, meanwhile, in the parlour, picking up her morsel of fancy work, had seated herself with it again—for life, as it were.