'Well, what is the confession, Elfride?'
She paused a moment, drew a long breath; and this is what she
said:
'I told you one day--or rather I gave you to understand--what was
not true. I fancy you thought me to mean I was nineteen my next
birthday, but it was my last I was nineteen.'
The moment had been too much for her. Now that the crisis had
come, no qualms of conscience, no love of honesty, no yearning to
make a confidence and obtain forgiveness with a kiss, could string
Elfride up to the venture. Her dread lest he should be
unforgiving was heightened by the thought of yesterday's artifice,
which might possibly add disgust to his disappointment. The
certainty of one more day's affection, which she gained by
silence, outvalued the hope of a perpetuity combined with the risk
of all.
The trepidation caused by these thoughts on what she had intended
to say shook so naturally the words she did say, that Knight never
for a moment suspected them to be a last moment's substitution.
He smiled and pressed her hand warmly.
'My dear Elfie--yes, you are now--no protestation--what a winning
little woman you are, to be so absurdly scrupulous about a mere
iota! Really, I never once have thought whether your nineteenth
year was the last or the present. And, by George, well I may not;
for it would never do for a staid fogey a dozen years older to
stand upon such a trifle as that.'
'Don't praise me--don't praise me! Though I prize it from your
lips, I don't deserve it now.
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