“Petty, when I asked permission to look at this letter, I was not aware how great a compliment it would be to me if I was permitted to see it.  It betrays your friend.”

“It betrays something more,” said he.

Mrs. Lovell cast down her eyes and read, without further comment.

These were the contents:—­

“My Dear Percy,—­Now that I see her every day again, I am worse than ever; and I remember thinking once or twice that Mrs. L. had cured me.  I am a sort of man who would jump to reach the top of a mountain.  I understand how superior Mrs. L. is to every woman in the world I have seen; but Rhoda cures me on that head.  Mrs. Lovell makes men mad and happy, and Rhoda makes them sensible and miserable.  I have had the talk with Rhoda.  It is all over.  I have felt like being in a big room with one candle alight ever since.  She has not looked at me, and does nothing but get by her father whenever she can, and takes his hand and holds it.  I see where the blow has struck her:  it has killed her pride; and Rhoda is almost all pride.  I suppose she thinks our plan is the best.  She has not said she does, and does not mention her sister.  She is going to die, or she turns nun, or marries a gentleman.  I shall never get her.  She will not forgive me for bringing this news to her.  I told you how she coloured, the first day I came; which has all gone now.  She just opens her lips to me.  You remember Corporal Thwaites—­you caught his horse, when he had his foot near wrenched off, going through the gate—­and his way of breathing through the under-row of his teeth—­the poor creature was in such pain—­that’s just how she takes her breath.  It makes her look sometimes like that woman’s head with the snakes for her hair.  This bothers me—­how is it you and Mrs. Lovell manage to talk together of such things?  Why, two men rather hang their heads a bit.  My notion is, that women—­ ladies, in especial, ought never to hear of sad things of this sort.  Of course, I mean, if they do, it cannot harm them.  It only upsets me.  Why are ladies less particular than girls in Rhoda’s place?”

   ("Shame being a virtue,” was Mrs. Lovell’s running comment.)

“She comes up to town with her father to-morrow.  The farm is ruined.  The poor old man had to ask me for a loan to pay the journey.  Luckily, Rhoda has saved enough with her pennies and two-pences.  Ever since I left the farm, it has been in the hands of an old donkey here, who has worked it his own way.  What is in the ground will stop there, and may as well.

“I leave off writing, I write such stuff; and if I go on writing to you, I shall be putting these things ‘—!—!—!’ The way you write about Mrs. Lovell, convinces me you are not in my scrape, or else gentlemen are just as different from their inferiors as ladies are from theirs.  That’s the question.  What is the meaning of your ’not being able to leave her for a day, for fear she should fall