It is of one of these last we are speaking.
Mark Waring was too honest to affect insensibility; he was not of the
stuff out of which accomplished actors are made. He walked quickly to
the window, that his face might not betray him, and did not turn round
till he thought he had disciplined it thoroughly. It was but a half
victory after all; for when Cecil met his eyes her cheek became the
paler of the two. She read there enough to make her wish that she could
give up all her former triumphs, and undo this last success. She tried
to tell him that she was deeply grieved and repentant; but the words
would not come. Mark forgot his own sorrow when he saw large drops
hanging ready to fall on the dark, long eyelashes.
"Pray do not distress yourself," he said, quite steadily; "such
presumption as mine deserves harsher treatment than it has met with from
you. You are not answerable for my extravagant self-delusions. I would
ask you to forgive me for having been so precipitate--only I know, now,
that if I had waited seven years your answer would have been the same.
Let us part in kindness; it will be very long before we meet again; but
I do not think I shall forget you; and I hope you will remember me if
you ever want a hand or head to carry out any one of your wishes or
whims.
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