She had scarcely uttered the words when her conscience whispered to her
that she had much better have been silent. However, the thing was said.
Edward's features worked violently. Never had anything stung him more.
He was touched on his tenderest point. It was his amusement; he followed
it like a child. He never made the slightest pretensions; what gave him
pleasure should be treated with forbearance by his friends. He never
thought how intolerable it is for a third person to have his ears
lacerated by an unsuccessful talent. He was indignant; he was hurt in a
way which he could not forgive. He felt himself discharged from all
obligations.

The necessity of being with Ottilie, of seeing her, whispering to her,
exchanging his confidence with her, increased with every day. He
determined to write to her, and ask her to carry on a secret
correspondence with him. The strip of paper on which he had, laconically
enough, made his request, lay on his writing-table, and was swept off by
a draught of wind as his valet entered to dress his hair. The latter was
in the habit of trying the heat of the iron by picking up any scraps of
paper which might be lying about. This time his hand fell on the billet;
he twisted it up hastily, and it was burnt. Edward observing the
mistake, snatched it out of his hand. After the man was gone, he sat
himself down to write it over again. The second time it would not run so
readily off his pen. It gave him a little uneasiness; he hesitated, but
he got over it. He squeezed the paper into Ottilie's hand the first
moment he was able to approach her. Ottilie answered him immediately. He
put the note unread in his waistcoat pocket, which, being made short in
the fashion of the time, was shallow, and did not hold it as it ought.
It worked out, and fell without his observing it on the ground.
Charlotte saw it, picked it up, and after giving a hasty glance at it,
reached it to him.