"Dear, dearest Clara," said Mary Belton, stretching herself forward from her chair, and putting out her thin, almost transparent, hand, "I do not think that you have thought enough of this; or, perhaps, you have not known it. But his love for you is as I say. To him it is everything. It pervades every hour of every day, every corner in his life! He knows nothing of anything else while he is in his present state."
"He is very good;—more than good."
"He is very good."
"But I do not see that;—that— Of course I know how disinterested he is."
"Disinterested is a poor word. It insinuates that in such a matter there could be a question of what people call interest."
"And I know, too, how much he honours me."
"Honour is a cold word. It is not honour, but love,—downright true, honest love. I hope he does honour you. I believe you to be an honest, true woman; and, as he knows you well, he probably does honour you;—but I am speaking of love." Again Clara was silent. She knew what should be her argument if she were determined to oppose her cousin's pleadings; and she knew also,—she thought she knew,—that she did intend to oppose them; but there was a coldness in the argument to which she was averse. "You cannot be insensible to such love as that!" said Mary, going on with the cause which she had in hand.
"You say that he is fond of me."
"Fond of you! I have not used such trifling expressions as that."
"That he loves me."