"I forgot to tell you,
but I asked for an explanation just to satisfy you. Here it is!" And
she took a note from her pocket-book and handed it to me. It was one
which she had written to him.
"I do not understand," I said.
"Read it," she answered, "and you will find I asked him to expect me
on _Monday_, the 26th. It was a clerical error. Tuesday was the 26th,
and I went on Tuesday. He waited for me the whole long Monday, and
that night he had to set off suddenly for the Continent on business
connected with the Great Hospital. He went, wondering what had
detained me, and expecting an explanation. When he returned he
inquired, but nobody could tell him whether I had been or not. So he
waited, and waited, as I did, expecting to hear, and as much perplexed
and distressed as I was, and as proud, for he never thought of writing
to me--nor did he think of looking at my note again until I wrote the
other day, and then he discovered the mistake. Now, are you
satisfied?"
"About that--yes," I answered, reluctantly. It was no relief to end him
blameless.
"But what did he mean when he talked of conscience and scruples?"
"He used to laugh at my 'troublesome conscience,' as he called it," she
answered, evasively.
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