"You forget I was a man then even."
"Well, then," she continued, "from my childhood, that we should be debarred from meeting freely; but why do you always correct me when I say our childhood? why are you so very anxious to make me remember that you are so much older than myself?"
"I say it, lest I should forget it."
"How do you mean? Where would be the harm?"
He looked at her so deeply, that her eyes fell beneath his glance, and she blushed.
"Where is your sketch-book?" he hastily said, looking away from her glowing face; but his eyes went lingeringly to other things.
"You have it in your hand! What are you thinking of, Mi—, Mr. Tremenhere?" she hastily substituted.
The sketch-book fell from his hand, and he grasped hers involuntarily, and the deep, dark eye grew full of passion, as it fixed itself on her face. "Call me," he whispered, "by that half-uttered name, and I will tell you why I always recall to my memory our difference of age."
But she was silent, trembling, and incapable of speech.
"Do say it; pray, utter it this once, and I will dare to believe you will not forget me—a poor, lonely man—when I go."