her opinion to be understood. She is positively triumphant over
Whythe. She goes around with a "Didn't-I-tell-you-so?" expression
oozing out of every feature of her face, and I think she tells
Elizabeth she is fortunate to have discovered his fickleness so soon.

If Elizabeth thinks she is fortunate she has a queer way of showing it.
She must cry a good deal at night, judging by her eyes in the morning,
but the thing that's most the matter with her is madness. She can't
take it in that Whythe is showing no signs of anxiousness to make up.
She imagined, I suppose, when they had their fuss that it wouldn't last
very long and that he would give in to whatever she wanted, and now
that he isn't giving in she is so freezingly furious with me she barely
speaks to me. She seems to think it is my fault and that my coming
just when I did is the cause of the whole trouble. Though she never
says anything directly to me, she makes remarks in my presence about
the way men flirt in Twickenham Town and how dangerous it is,
especially for young girls who have never had any experience in things
of that sort and are deceived by it; and as she talks I just rock and
rock if in a chair, and swing and swing if in a hammock, until she has
said a good many nasty things, and then I get up and go up-stairs and
bring down a box of candy Whythe has sent me and offer it to her with
my most Christian forgiveness and most understanding smile, and,
strange to say, she never takes a piece!

I don't mind her remarks. They're natural, and if she wasn't such a
horrid little teapot I'd do anything I could to straighten out things;
but until she behaves herself I won't. I am having a very interesting
time being in love, and why should I stop just because a man she broke
with isn't grieving, but is keeping himself in practice saying to me
what he used to say to her? I am not going to stop until I think it is