“Never!”
Neither spoke again for a little while. But after that pause he said, with some effort:
“Of course I know that this has been in both our minds, Rosa, and of course I am in honour bound to confess freely that it does not originate with you.”
“No, nor with you, dear,” she returned, with pathetic earnestness. “It has sprung up between us. You are not truly happy in our engagement; I am not truly happy in it. O, I am so sorry, so sorry!” And there she broke into tears.
“I am deeply sorry too, Rosa. Deeply sorry for you.”
“And I for you, poor boy! And I for you!”
This pure young feeling, this gentle and forbearing feeling of each towards the other, brought with it its reward in a softening light that seemed to shine on their position. The relations between them did not look wilful, or capricious, or a failure, in such a light; they became elevated into something more self-denying, honourable, affectionate, and true.
“If we knew yesterday,” said Rosa, as she dried her eyes, “and we did know yesterday, and on many, many yesterdays, that we were far from right together in those relations which were not of our own choosing, what better could we do today than change them? It is natural that we should be sorry, and you see how sorry we both are; but how much better to be sorry now than then!”
“When, Rosa?”
“When it would be too late. And then we should be angry, besides.”