Mrs. Rook by tomorrow's post."

Alban heard her with dismay. "Pray be guided by my advice!" he said
earnestly. "Pray don't write that letter!"

"Why not?"

It was too late to recall the words which he had rashly allowed to
escape him. How could he reply?

To own that he had not only read what Emily had read, but had carefully
copied the whole narrative and considered it at his leisure, appeared
to be simply impossible after what he had now heard. Her peace of
mind depended absolutely on his discretion. In this serious emergency,
silence was a mercy, and silence was a lie. If he remained silent, might
the mercy be trusted to atone for the lie? He was too fond of Emily
to decide that question fairly, on its own merits. In other words, he
shrank from the terrible responsibility of telling her the truth.

"Isn't the imprudence of writing to such a person as Mrs. Rook plain
enough to speak for itself?" he suggested cautiously.

"Not to me."

She made that reply rather obstinately. Alban seemed (in her view) to be
trying to prevent her from atoning for an act of injustice. Besides,
he despised her cake. "I want to know why you object," she said; taking
back the neglected slice, and eating it herself.

"I object," Alban answered, "because Mrs. Rook is a coarse presuming
woman. She may pervert your letter to some use of her own, which you may
have reason to regret."

"Is that all?"

"Isn't it enough?"

"It may be enough for _you_. When I have done a person an injury, and
wish to make an apology, I don't think it necessary to inquire whether
the person's manners happen to be vulgar or not."

Alban's patience was still equal to any demands that she could make on
it. "I can only offer you advice which is honestly intended for your own
good," he gently replied.

"You would have more influence over me, Mr. Morris, if you were a little
readier to take me into your confidence. I daresay I am wrong--but I
don't like following advice which is given to me in the dark."

It was impossible to offend him. "Very naturally," he said; "I don't
blame you."

Her color deepened, and her voice rose. Alban's patient adherence to his
own view--so courteously and considerately urged--was beginning to try
her temper. "In plain words," she rejoined, "I am to believe that you
can't be mistaken in your judgment of another person."

There was a ring at the door of the cottage while she was speaking. But
she was too warmly interested