clyffe went on:--

'You were too easily won. I'd have made him or anybody else speak out
before he should have kissed my face for his pleasure. But you are one
of those precipitantly fond things who are yearning to throw away their
hearts upon the first worthless fellow who says good-morning. In the
first place, you shouldn't have loved him so quickly: in the next,
if you must have loved him off-hand, you should have concealed it. It
tickled his vanity: "By Jove, that girl's in love with me already!" he
thought.'

To hasten away at the end of the toilet, to tell Mrs. Morris--who
stood waiting in a little room prepared for her, with tea poured out,
bread-and-butter cut into diaphanous slices, and eggs arranged--that she
wanted no breakfast: then to shut herself alone in her bedroom, was her
only thought. She was followed thither by the well-intentioned
matron with a cup of tea and one piece of bread-and-butter on a tray,
cheerfully insisting that she should eat it.

To those who grieve, innocent cheerfulness seems heartless levity. 'No,
thank you, Mrs. Morris,' she said, keeping the door closed. Despite
the incivility of the action, Cytherea could not bear to let a pleasant
person see her face then.

Immediate revocation--even if revocation would be more effective by
postponement--is the impulse of young wounded natures. Cytherea went
to her blotting-book, took out the long letter so carefully written, so
full of gushing remarks and tender hints, and sealed up so neatly with
a little seal bearing 'Good Faith' as its motto, tore the missive into
fifty pieces, and threw them into the grate. It was then the bitterest
of anguishes to look upon some of the words she had so lovingly written,
and see them existing only in mutilated forms without meaning--to feel
that his eye would never read them, nobody ever know how ardently she
had penned them.

Pity for one's self for being wasted is mostly present in these moods of
abnegation.

The meaning of all his allusions, his abruptness in telling her of his
love, his constraint at first, then his desperate manner of speaking,
was clear. They must have been the last flickerings of a conscience not
quite dead to all sense of perfidiousness and fickleness. Now he had
gone to London: she would be dismissed from his memory, in the same way
as Miss Aldclyffe had said. And here she was in Edward's own parish,
reminded continually of him by what she saw and heard. The landscape,
yes