‘No, he took it pretty well; he was civil enough. Where are you, Loo?’ He sat up in bed and kissed her. ‘Good night, my dear, good night.’

‘You have nothing more to tell me?’

‘No. What should I have? You wouldn’t have me tell you a lie!’

‘I wouldn’t have you do that to-night, Tom, of all the nights in your life; many and much happier as I hope they will be.’

‘Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that I am sure I wonder I don’t say anything to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed.’

Kissing her again, he turned round, drew the coverlet over his head, and lay as still as if that time had come by which she had adjured him. She stood for some time at the bedside before she slowly moved away. She stopped at the door, looked back when she had opened it, and asked him if he had called her? But he lay still, and she softly closed the door and returned to her room.

Then the wretched boy looked cautiously up and found her gone, crept out of bed, fastened his door, and threw himself upon his pillow again: tearing his hair, morosely crying, grudgingly loving her, hatefully but impenitently spurning himself, and no less hatefully and unprofitably spurning all the good in the world.