"I am sure she would," said Lucy, who did not in the least know what words she was uttering.
"It would have been simply for her money,—her money and her beauty. It would not have been because I love her."
"Never—never ask a girl to marry you, unless you love her, Mr. Greystock."
"Then there is only one that I can ever ask," said he. There was nothing of course that she could say to this. If he did not choose to go further, she was not bound to understand him. But would he go further? She felt at the moment that an open declaration of his love to herself would make her happy for ever, even though it should be accompanied by an assurance that he could not marry her. If they only knew each other,—that it was so between them,—that, she thought, would be enough for her. And as for him—if a woman could bear such a position, surely he might bear it. "Do you know who that one is?" he asked.
"No," she said,—shaking her head.
"Lucy, is that true?"
"What does it matter?"
"Lucy;—look at me, Lucy," and he put his hand upon her arm.
"No,—no,—no!" she said.
"I love you so well, Lucy, that I never can love another. I have thought of many women, but could never even think of one, as a woman to love, except you. I have sometimes fancied I could marry for money and position,—to help myself on in the world by means of a wife,—but when my mind has run away with me, to revel amidst ideas of feminine sweetness, you have always—always been the heroine of the tale, as the mistress of the happy castle in the air."