"No, I'm not. And I shall tell papa as soon as I see him just how the
case stands. Why, it would be dreadful if we let him believe it was all
going well, and perhaps tell others that it was, and we knew all the
time that it wasn't. He would hate that, and he wouldn't like us for
letting him."
"Hadn't you better give the thing a chance to go right? There hasn't
been time yet."
"No, dearest, I feel that since I've bragged so to papa, I ought to eat
humble-pie before him as soon as possible."
"Yes. Why should you make me eat it, too?"
"I can't help that; I would if I could. But, unfortunately, we are one."
"And you seem to be the one. Suppose I should ask you not to eat
humble-pie before your father?"
"Then, of course, I should do as you asked. But I hope you won't."
Maxwell did not say anything, and she went on, tenderly, entreatingly,
"And I hope you'll never allow me to deceive myself about anything you
do. I should resent it a great deal more than if you had positively
deceived me. Will you promise me, if anything sad or bad happens, that
you don't want me to know because it will make me unhappy or
disagreeable, you'll tell me at once?"
"It won't be necessary. You'll find it out."
"No, do be serious, dearest. _I_ am _very_ serious. Will you?"
"What is the use of asking such a thing as that? It seems to me that
I've invited you to a full share of the shame and sorrow that Godolphin
has brought upon me."
"Yes, you have," said Louise, thoughtfully. "And you may be sure that I
appreciate it. Don't you like to have me share it?"
"Well, I don't know. I might like to get at it first myself."
"Ah, you didn't like my opening Godolphin's letter when it came!"
"I shouldn't mind, now, if you would answer it."
"I shall be only too glad to answer it, if you will let me answer it as
it deserves."
"That needs reflection."