The simple, ingenuous and acquiescent sweetness with which she said this, was a new pang to her lover:—had she repined, had she looked ill-humoured, his task would not have been so difficult.
'But what reason can you give for declining this acquaintance?' resumed Adeline.
'Aye! there's the difficulty,' replied Glenmurray: 'pure-minded and amiable as I know you to be, how can I bear to tell these children of prejudice that you are not my wife, but my mistress?'
Adeline started; and, turning pale, exclaimed, 'Are you sure, then, that they do not know it already?'
'Quite sure—else Maynard would not have thought you a fit companion for his sisters.'
'But surely—he must know your principles;—he must have read your works?'
'I am certain he is ignorant of both, and does not even know that I am an author.'
'Is it possible?' cried Adeline: 'is there any one so unfortunate to be unacquainted with your writings?'
Glenmurray at another time would have been elated at a compliment like this from the woman whom he idolized; but at this moment he heard it with a feeling of pain which he would not have liked to define to himself, and casting his eyes to the ground he said nothing.
'So then,' said Adeline mournfully, 'I am an improper companion for them, not they for me!' and spite of herself her eyes filled with tears.—At this moment a waiter brought in a note for Glenmurray;—it was from Maynard, and as follows:—