Darcy looked at the miserable girl who sat in the chair across from him; she had been weeping for a full quarter of an hour. He had let her, supposing her rightly overcome by the rude manner in which she had been treated, but the time for tears was up, and so he admonished her sternly, but not without gentleness to dry her eyes.

"I have heard from your sister the events of the past few weeks; and now, Kitty, I would like to hear them from you, to see where the stories match, and where they diverge."

So Kitty began to speak in a halting voice. Darcy was surprised to find that she did not couch her bad behavior in explanations or excuses. She told him the story very plainly and simply, and her deep remorse seemed to touch his heart.

"You see, I did not want Mr. Wyeth to think me uninteresting," she finished, wringing her hands. "And so I—misrepresented myself. Oh! Some things I meant to say—but once said, others misunderstood the meaning I had intended. I did not mean to tell anyone that Mary had any sort of attachment with Lord Brereton. But once the idea was out, and had twisted around, I did nothing to correct it."

Darcy studied her. "And did such efforts make you happy, Kitty?"

"No," Kitty said. "I am very miserable, indeed, for it is clear that Mr. Wyeth has less than no respect for me, now, and I did admire him greatly—do."

Darcy sat back in his chair, and folded his hands; he scrutinized Kitty for the better part of ten minutes. Finally he opened a desk drawer and withdrew a letter.

"Kitty," he said, "I can see that you are very sorry for your actions, and that you have had to learn your lesson the hard way. It is a valuable lesson, and I feel you have suffered greatly in its attainment. I should hardly want to make you suffer more but I do feel that you should have a look at this letter, which I received only this morning."

Kitty took the letter from his out-stretched hand, now knowing that it must have come from Mr. Wyeth. With a trembling hand she unfolded the page and read.

MY DEAR SIR:

I am sure you have by now heard of the events which have recently embroiled your two younger sisters in town; I take my pen to write to you today in hopes of explaining my part in all of it. It cannot have escaped your knowledge that I was acquainted with the Misses Mary and Catherine Bennet during their short sojourn in London. And I do not hesitate to tell you that upon first meeting them I found them the most charming of ladies.

Miss Catherine especially, it must be said, captured my admiration from the start. She was a fresh, pretty girl, full of sweet country manners and wholly without affectation. My good sir, it is almost certain that you must be also acquainted with my erstwhile engagement to one Mrs. Hare—formerly known as Miss Amy Evanston. She is unfortunately deceased now, so I shall attempt not to slander her character when she is not here to defend it.

I shall only tell you, sir, that despite my public actions toward my fiancée, the idea of marriage with her was a notion that was completely repugnant to me. Miss Evanston—Mrs. Hare—was a woman who preferred the sophistications of town to the country life that I have so long held dear. The engagement between us was formed at the mutual desire of our parents; I will go so far as to tell you in confidence that I was not badly disappointed when Miss Evanston abandoned me for another suitor. Any marriage between us must have been an unhappy one, for we were not well-suited to one another.

The whole affair quite put me off the idea of matrimony for a long while—that is, until I met Miss Catherine. Such a sweet, charming woman would certainly be a worthwhile wife, I thought. I will even go so far as to say that I had fallen quite in love with her, within only a few days of her acquaintance.

At this, Kitty put the letter down, two spots of color showing in her pale cheeks. Oh, Wyeth had cared—he had loved! She would have expected such information to be a balm to her troubled soul. But it was not—it only served to show Kitty the vastness of what she had lost, and by her own actions, too.

Unwillingly, she raised the paper and read further.

You may imagine my chagrin when I found that Miss Catherine's sweetness, her goodness, her simple uncomplicatedness, was not native to her true nature, but an affectation of the most unexpected degree. My good sir, I have often heard of women who play the coquette in order to obtain their share of male ardour. But I was unable to expect such a thing of your sister. However, I was not able to deny it for very long. Her true character was so revealed in such a short time as to dash all my hopes of ever making her my wife.

I write to you now so that you may revise your ill opinion of me (if one has, indeed, formed). Sir, you are an admired acquaintance. I should have liked to call you 'brother' some day. Please rest assured that I did not intend to hurt your sister's feelings, or to 'lead her on.' I only knew that I could not allow myself to be attached again to a lady whom I knew would never bring me happiness. I am quite heartsick and low over the whole affair—not as much over Miss Catherine's physical defection, but over the fact that she did not turn out to be the sweet girl I wanted so badly for her to be. I did love her greatly—and do still feel some affection for her, despite my attempts to quell it. But it is not enough.

My best wishes for the continued health of your family, I remain your faithful servant, etc, etc.

When Kitty had finished reading, there were tears in her eyes. She gave the letter back to Darcy, who was looking at her with concern.

"Kitty," he said suddenly, "If you like I will write to Wyeth, and try to explain to him what has occurred. Perhaps this could restore you to his previous good opinion of you."

"No," said Kitty very certainly. "It may only serve to bring me lower in his eyes—and I would not want to risk that. Thank you all the same."

She rose from her chair and went unseeingly to the window, where she passed the remainder of the day listening to Mary play the pianoforte, and Lydia prattle about the state of her shabby dresses. But Kitty hardly heard them. She said, over and over, "He did care. He did," and was surprised again at how little comfort that knowledge brought her. For having cared and caring are two entirely different things.