He had wished that some allusion
should be made, not to the Braes of Linter, but to the close
confidence which had so long existed between them; but he found
that the language to do this properly was wanting to him. Had the
opportunity arisen he would have told her now the whole story of
Mary Flood Jones; but the opportunity did not come, and he left her,
never having mentioned the name of his Mary or having hinted at his
engagement to any one of his friends in London. "It is better so,"
he said to himself. "My life in Ireland is to be a new life, and why
should I mix two things together that will be so different?"
He was to dine at his lodgings, and then leave them for good at
eight o'clock. He had packed up everything before he went to Portman
Square, and he returned home only just in time to sit down to his
solitary mutton chop. But as he sat down he saw a small note
addressed to himself lying on the table among the crowd of books,
letters, and papers, of which he had still to make disposal. It was
a very small note in an envelope of a peculiar tint of pink, and he
knew the handwriting well. The blood mounted all over his face as he
took it up, and he hesitated for a moment before he opened it. It
could not be that the offer should be repeated to him.
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