"I mean to do the very best I can; that is, if—if—if you are not too much offended with me now."
"But, Mary, it should not be a question of doing the best you can. Between man and wife there should be no need of such effort. It should be a labour of love."
"So it will;—and I'm sure I'll labour as hard as I can."
Felix began to perceive that the line he had taken would not answer the required purpose, and that he must be somewhat more abrupt with her,—perhaps a little less delicate, in coming to the desired point. "Mary," he said, "what is the name of that gentleman whom—whom you met out of doors you know?"
"Albert Fitzallen," said Mary, hesitating very much as she pronounced the name, but nevertheless rather proud of the sound.
"And you are—fond of him?" asked Graham.
Poor girl! What was she to say? "No; I'm not very fond of him."
"Are you not? Then why did you consent to that secret meeting?"
"Oh, Mr. Graham—I didn't mean it; indeed I didn't. And I didn't tell him to write to me, nor yet to come looking after me. Upon my word I didn't. But then I thought when he sent me that letter that he didn't know;—about you I mean; and so I thought I'd better tell him; and that's why I went. Indeed that was the reason."
"Mrs. Thomas could have told him that."