as being altogether fair, but she did it. Mrs.
Llewelopen, who is Miss Phillips's aunt, took her up rather
warmly, and informed her that I was engaged to Miss Phillips. The widow
smiled, and said I was a sad man, for I had told her, when I engaged
myself to her, that my affair with Miss Phillips was all broken off,
and had repeated the same thing two evenings before. She also informed
them that I visited her every day, and was most devoted. To all this
Miss Phillips had to listen, and could not say one word. She had sense
enough, however, to decline any altercation with the widow, and reserve
her remarks for me. And now, old boy, you see what I caught on entering
the presence of Miss Phillips. She did not weep; she did not sigh; she
did not reproach; she did not cry--she simply questioned me, standing
before me cold and icy, and flinging her bitter questions at me. The
widow had said this and that. The widow had repeated such and such
words of mine. The widow had also subjected her to bitter shame and
mortification. And what had I to say? She was too much of a lady to
denounce or to scold, and too high-hearted even to taunt me; too proud,
too lofty, to deign to show that she felt the cut; she only questioned
me; she only asked me to explain such and such things. Well, I tried to
explain, and gave a full and frank account of every thing, and, as far
as the widow was concerned, I was perfectly truthful. I declared again
that it was all a mistake, and that I'd give any thing to get rid of
her. This was all perfectly true, but it wasn't by any means
satisfactory to Miss Phillips. She's awfully high-strung, you know. She
couldn't overlook the fact that I had given I the widow to understand
that it was all broken off with us. I had never said so, but I had let
the widow think so, and that was enough.

"Well, you know, I got huffy at last, and said she didn't make
allowances for a fellow, and all that I told her that I was awfully
careless, and was always getting into confounded scrapes, but that it
would all turn out right in the end, and some day she'd understand it
all. Finally, I felt so confoundedly mean, and so exactly like some
infernal whipped cur, that I then and there asked her to take me, on
the spot, as I was, and fulfil her vow to me. I swore that the widow
was nothing to me, and wished she was in Jericho. At this she smiled
slightly, and said that I didn't know what I was saying, and, in fact,
declined my self-s