explanation to him while he was in this mood? I tried to speak but could not.
He broke the silence at last. "I hope you received my letter, Miss Mazumdar?" I noticed the change in the mode of address. His manner was distant, his language formal, cold and passionless. It almost froze the blood in my veins. The reply I gave was grave, and spoken in an unsteady voice.
"Yes, I received it. I did not reply because you were to return so soon."
"May I expect a reply now?"
I was prepared to speak to him. I had so long rehearsed what I was going to say. I knew it all by heart, but when I began to speak, I found how difficult it was to do so. I could remember neither the beginning nor the end of my prepared speech. It seemed as if the whole thing crowded into my brain at once and I became confused. I faltered a few indistinct words in reply. "I—what am I to say?—the fault was"
"The same mood still—the same reply, 'The fault was mine,' you say." I had not meant it that way. I had meant to say the fault was not his but mine. He, however, gave me no chance to say more, but simply replied to my last words.
