“I know they didn’t,” I answered, laughing.  “I hated very much to admit even to myself that I had altered; it seemed, you know, so capricious and childish,—­in short, so far from romantic.  I kept up the illusion as long as I could; used to go off alone to read your letters, look at your picture, and fancy I felt just as at first.  Then when I sat down to write, and remembered how handsome you were, and all that had happened, the old feelings would come back, and for the time you were all I cared for.  But I am very glad we have had this explanation, and understand each other.  We shall both be happier for it.”

I had a little taste of vengeance, even then, when I saw how his vanity was wounded.  He tried to look relieved,—­I dare say he tried to feel so,—­but I question very much whether he was pleased with himself that he had been so cool and philosophical.  He did not wish to make me wretched; but he had expected I would be so, as a matter of course.  To find me so comfortable under the infliction perplexed and disconcerted him.

“This will not make any coldness between us, I hope?” he said, at last.  “We will be friends still, dear Juanita?”

“Yes,” I replied, “we will be friends, dear William.  We are a great deal more in our true relations thus than as lovers.”

“And your uncle’s family,” he inquired,—­“shall we explain all to them?”

“There is no need of that,” I answered, carelessly.  “Let things pass.  After a time they will perhaps notice that there is a change, and I can tell them that we are both tired of the engagement.  They will ask no further questions.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “It will save me some embarrassment.”

“Yes,” I replied, looking at him steadily, “I think it would have been a rather awkward topic for you to broach.”

His eye fell before mine; through all the sophistry he had used, I think some slight sense of the baseness of his conduct forced itself upon his mind.

“Now I must return to the house,” I said, rising; “will you not come with me?  My uncle and aunt will expect to see you, and Anna Gray is here.  You can make your first essay toward the rich match this evening.”

“Nonsense!” he said, impatiently, yet he accompanied me.  I knew he did not like to lose sight of me.

Never had I exerted myself so much to please any one, as I did that night to charm and attract him;—­not, indeed, by any marked attention; that would have failed of its object.  But I talked and danced; I displayed for his benefit all that I had acquired of ease and manner since he left.  I saw his astonishment, that the pale, quiet girl who was wont to sit in some corner, almost unnoticed, should now be the life of that gay circle.  I made him admire me most at the very moment he had lost me forever,—­and so far, all was well.