I am afraid that there is no chance of your being still at Tempest when I return.

I shall be most happy to undertake any commissions.
"Yours sincerely, "F.

MUSGRAVE" The note drops from my fingers, rolls on to my lap, and thence to the ground.

I sit in stiff and stupid silence.

To tell the truth, I am trying strongly to imagine how I should look and what I should say, were I as ignorant of causes as Barbara thinks me, and to look and speak accordingly.
She kneels down beside me, and softly drawing down my face, till it is on a level with hers, and our cheeks touch, says in a tone of gentle entreaty and compassion, as if _I_ were the one to be considered--the prime sufferer: "Do not fret about it, Nancy! it is of no--no consequence!--there is no harm done!" I struggle to say _something_, but for the life of me I can frame no words.
"It was my own fancy!" she says, faltering, "I suppose my vanity misled me!" "It is all my fault!" cry I, suddenly finding passionate words, starting up, and beginning to walk feverishly to and fro--"_all!_--there never was any one in all this world so blind, so ill-judging, so miserably mistaken! If it had not been for me, you never would have thought twice of him--never; and I"-- (beginning to speak with weeping indistinctness)--"I thought it would be so nice to have you near me--I thought that there was nothing the matter with him, but his temper; _many_ men are ill-tempered--nearly _all_.