If there ever was an ungentlemanly boor, it was I.
There! Miss Foster, there is my confession.

Can you forgive it?
Will you give me another chance ?' He stood over her, his broad chest heaving with an agitation that, do what she would, communicated itself to her.

She could not help it.

She put out her hand, with a sweet look, half smiling, half appealing--and he took it.
Then, as she hurriedly withdrew it, she repeated: 'There is nothing--nothing--to forgive.

You have _all_ been good to me.