“That put-off won’t do with me, sir.  You are not to treat any girl you may please in that sort of way;—­oh, John!” Then she looked at him as though she did not know whether to fly at him and cover him with kisses, or to fly at him and tear his hair.

“I know I haven’t behaved quite as I should have done,” he began.

“Oh, John!” and she shook her head.  “You mean, then, to tell me that you are going to marry her?”

“I mean to say nothing of the kind.  I only mean to say that I am going away from Burton Crescent.”

“John Eames, I wonder what you think will come to you!  Will you answer me this; have I had a promise from you,—­a distinct promise, over and over again, or have I not?”

“I don’t know about a distinct promise—­”

“Well, well!  I did think that you was a gentleman that would not go back from your word.  I did think that.  I did think that you would never put a young lady to the necessity of bringing forward her own letters to prove that she is not expecting more than she has a right!  You don’t know!  And that, after all that has been between us!  John Eames!” And again it seemed to him as though she were about to fly.

“I tell you that I know I haven’t behaved well.  What more can I say?”

“What more can you say?  Oh, John! to ask me such a question!  If you were a man you would know very well what more to say.  But all you private secretaries are given to deceit, as the sparks fly upwards.  However, I despise you,—­I do, indeed.  I despise you.”

“If you despise me, we might as well shake hands and part at once.  I dare say that will be best.  One doesn’t like to be despised, of course; but sometimes one can’t help it.”  And then he put out his hand to her.

“And is this to be the end of all?” she said, taking it.

“Well, yes; I suppose so.  You say I’m despised.”

“You shouldn’t take up a poor girl in that way for a sharp word,—­not when she is suffering as I am made to suffer.  If you only think of it,—­think what I have been expecting!” And now Amelia began to cry, and to look as though she were going to fall into his arms.

“It is better to tell the truth,” he said; “isn’t it?”

“But it shouldn’t be the truth.”

“But it is the truth.  I couldn’t do it.  I should ruin myself and you too, and we should never be happy.”

“I should be happy,—­very happy indeed.”  At this moment the poor girl’s tears were unaffected, and her words were not artful.  For a minute or two her heart,—­her actual heart,—­was allowed to prevail.

“It cannot be, Amelia.  Will you not say good-bye?”

“Good-bye,” she said, leaning against him as she spoke.

“I do so hope you will be happy,” he said.  And then, putting his arm round her waist, he kissed her; which he certainly ought not to have done.

When the interview was over, he escaped out into the crescent, and as he walked down through the squares,—­Woburn Square, and Russell Square, and Bedford Square,—­towards the heart of London, he felt himself elated almost to a state of triumph.  He had got himself well out of his difficulties, and now he would be ready for his love-tale to Lily.