really touched her heart or tempted her, even momentarily, from her allegiance
to Stephen. His eyes had always looked unspeakable things; his voice had
seemed to breathe feelings that he had never dared put in words; but today he
had really stirred her, for although he had still been vague, it was easy to
see that his love for her had passed all bounds of discretion. She remembered
his impassioned farewells, his despair, his doubt as to whether he could
forget her by plunging into the vortex of business, or whether he had better
end it all in the river, as so many other broken-hearted fellows had done. She
had been touched by his misery, even against her better judgment; and she had
intended to confess it all to Stephen sometime, telling him that she should
never again accept attentions from a stranger, lest a tragedy like this should
happen twice in a lifetime.

She had imagined that Stephen would be his large-minded, great-hearted,
magnanimous self, and beg her to forget this fascinating will-o'-the-wisp by
resting in his deeper, serener love. She had meant to be contrite and
faithful, praying nightly that poor Claude might live down his present
anguish, of which she had been the innocent cause.

Instead, what had happened? She had been put altogether in the wrong. Stephen
had almost cast her off, and that, too, without argument. He had given her her
liberty before she had asked for it, taking it for granted, without question,
that she desired to be rid of him. Instead of comforting her in her remorse,
or sympathizing with her for so nobly refusing to shine in Claude's larger
world of Boston, Stephen had assumed that she was disloyal in every
particular.

And pray how was she to cope with such a disagreeable and complicated
situation?