“Madam,” I said respectfully, “I understand. I assure you I am in no danger of putting any strained construction on your motives. But I must say, even to you, having known this injured family from childhood, that if you suppose the girl, so deeply wronged, has not been cruelly deluded, and would not rather die a hundred deaths than take a cup of water from your son’s hand now, you cherish a terrible mistake.”
“Well, Rosa, well!” said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was about to interpose, “it is no matter. Let it be. You are married, sir, I am told?”
I answered that I had been some time married.
“And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead, but I understand you are beginning to be famous.”
“I have been very fortunate,” I said, “and find my name connected with some praise.”
“You have no mother?”—in a softened voice.
“No.”
“It is a pity,” she returned. “She would have been proud of you. Good night!”
I took the