clined to take advantage of it."

"Ah, well, now," cried Bernard, "I am sorry for him!"

"I was very kind--very respectful," said Angela. "I thanked him from the
bottom of my heart; I begged his pardon very humbly for the wrong--if
wrong it was--that I was doing him. I did n't in the least require of
him that he should leave Baden at seven o'clock the next morning. I had
no idea that he would do so, and that was the reason that I insisted to
my mother that we ourselves should go away. When we went I knew nothing
about his having gone, and I supposed he was still there. I did n't wish
to meet him again."

Angela gave this information slowly, softly, with pauses between the
sentences, as if she were recalling the circumstances with a certain
effort; and meanwhile Bernard, with his transfigured face and his eyes
fixed upon her lips, was moving excitedly about the room.

"Well, he can't accuse me, then!" he broke out again. "If what I said
had no more effect upon him than that, I certainly did him no wrong."

"I think you are rather vexed he did n't believe you," said Angela.

"I confess I don't understand it. He had all the air of it. He certainly
had not the air of a man who was going to rush off and give you the last
proof of his confidence."

"It was not a proof of confidence," said Angela. "It had nothing to
do with me. It was as between himself and you; it was a proof of
independence. He did believe you, more or less, and what you said fell
in with his own impressions--strange impressions that they were, poor
man! At the same time, as I say, he liked me, too; it was out of his
liking me that all his trouble came! He caught himself in the act of
listening to you too credulously--and that seemed to him unmanly and
dishonorable. The sensation brought with it a reaction, and to prove
to himself that in such a matter he could be influenced by nobody, he
marched away, an hour after he had talked with you, and, in the teeth
of his perfect mistrust, confirmed by your account of my
irregularities--heaven forgive you both!--again asked me to be his wife.
But he hoped I would refuse!"

"Ah," cried Bernard, "the recreant! He deserved--he deserved--"

"That I should accept him?" Angela asked, smiling still.

Bernard was so much affected by this revelation, it seemed to him to
make such a difference in his own responsibility and to lift such a
weight off his conscience, that he broke out again into the liveliest
ejaculat