Suddenly Meeta seemed to arouse herself as
from a deep reverie:
"Why do you not talk to me of Sophie?" she said, attempting to speak
gayly, though one less embarrassed than Ernest could not have failed to
note the tremulousness of her voice, and the quivering of the pallid lip
which vainly strove to smile.
But Meeta's agitation was as nothing to that of Ernest. For a moment he
gazed upon her as though spell-bound, then dropping his face into his
clasped hands, sat actually shivering before her. It was plain that
Ernest had not lightly estimated his obligations to her. If he had
sinned against them he had not despised them, and this conviction gave
new strength to Meeta. She rose for the hour superior to every selfish
emotion. Laying her hand upon his arm, she said, gently:
"Be not so agitated, Ernest; can you not regard me as your friend, and
talk to me as you did in old days of all that disturbs you; and why
should you be disturbed at my speaking of--of your Sophie? You do not
suppose that--you know that--in short, Ernest, we cannot be expected to
feel now as we did five years ago; but surely that need not prevent our
being friends.
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