That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to forget even to shake hands with me, but left the room in silence. I⁠—who, though I had no love, had much friendship for him⁠—was hurt by the marked omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.

“I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,” said Diana, “during your walk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering in the passage expecting you⁠—he will make it up.”

I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him⁠—he stood at the foot of the stairs.

“Good night, St. John,” said I.

“Good night, Jane,” he replied calmly.

“Then shake hands,” I added.