“I am not so unreasonable as to expect,” said Agnes, resuming her usual tone, after a little while, “that you will, or that you can, at once, change any sentiment that has become a conviction to you; least of all a sentiment that is rooted in your trusting disposition. You ought not hastily to do that. I only ask you, Trotwood, if you ever think of me⁠—I mean,” with a quiet smile, for I was going to interrupt her, and she knew why, “as often as you think of me⁠—to think of what I have said. Do you forgive me for all this?”

“I will forgive you, Agnes,” I replied, “when you come to do Steerforth justice, and to like him as well as I do.”

“Not until then?” said Agnes.

I saw a passing shadow on her face when I made this mention of him, but she returned my smile, and we were again as unreserved in our mutual confidence as of old.

“And when, Agnes,” said I, “will you forgive me the other night?”