But, the present John Rokesmith, far removed from the late John Harmon, remained standing at a distance. A little distance in respect of space, but a great distance in respect of separation.
“ Mr. Rokesmith,” said Bella, taking up her work, and inspecting it all round the corners, “I wanted to say something to you when I could have the opportunity, as an explanation why I was rude to you the other day. You have no right to think ill of me, sir.”
The sharp little way in which she darted a look at him, half sensitively injured, and half pettishly, would have been very much admired by the late John Harmon.
“You don’t know how well I think of you, Miss Wilfer.”
“Truly, you must have a very high opinion of me, Mr. Rokesmith, when you believe that in prosperity I neglect and forget my old home.”
“Do I believe so?”
“You did , sir, at any rate,” returned Bella.
“I took the liberty of reminding you of a little omission into which you had fallen—insensibly and naturally fallen. It was no more than that.”
“And I beg leave to ask you, Mr. Rokesmith,” said Bella, “why you took that liberty?—I hope there is no offence in the phrase; it is your own, remember.”
“Because I am truly, deeply, profoundly interested in you, Miss Wilfer. Because I wish to see you always at your best. Because I—shall I go on?”
“No, sir,” returned Bella, with a burning face, “you have said more than enough. I beg that you will not go on. If you have any generosity,