Nesta had nothing to defend: she walked in a bald waste.
'Can I have been guilty of leading him to think... ?' she said, in a tone that writhed, at a second discussion of this hapless affair.
'They choose to think,' mademoiselle replied.

'It is he or another.

My dear and dearest, you have entered the field where shots fly thick, as they do to soldiers in battle; and it is neither your fault nor any one's, if you are hit.' Nesta gazed at her, with a shy supplicating cry of 'Louise.' Mademoiselle immediately answered the tone of entreaty.

'Has it happened to me?
I am of the age of eight and twenty; passable, to look at: yes, my dear, I have gone through it.

To spare you the questions tormenting you, I will tell you, that perhaps our experience of our feelings comes nigh on a kind of resemblance.