"But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood. Her voice alone was sufficient testimony. Having wrung from her an opinion on your character, I demanded a second opinion of--another person about whom I had my conjectures, though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectures in the world. I would _make_ her speak. I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her queer provoking way, and at last out it came. The voice, I say, was enough; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its tones. There was no confession, no confidence, in the matter. To these things she cannot condescend; but I am sure that man's happiness is dear to her as her own life."
"Who is it?"

; but the feeling showed itself in spite of her. She spoke of one man in a way that could not be misunderstood. Having asked her opinion of you, I demanded a second opinion of - another person about whom I had made puzzled conjectures. I was determined to make her speak, and at last out it came, in a whisper, and yet with such soft vehemence. I am sure that man's happiness is as dear to her as her own life."
"Who is it?"
