"A dewy English girl. That's what B and I said we should be when we came down here. I'm awfully glad you've seen it so soon. Thanks ever so much, Francis."
There was a slight pause. Then the young man said in his quiet well-bred voice: "I've never been quite sure whether I was in love with you or not. Now I know I am, and have been all along."
Now that it had come—what she had felt coming for the last three days, and had instinctively warded off—she felt quite calm and collected. She approved of this quiet way of introducing a serious subject. There had been one or two attempted introductions of the same subject which had been more difficult to handle. But it ought to be talked over quietly, between two sensible people, who liked one another, and understood one another. They might possibly come to an agreement, or they might not. If they didn't, they could still go on being friends. That it was somewhat lacking in romance did not trouble her. The less romance had to do with the business of marriage the more likely it was to turn out satisfactorily; provided always that there was genuine liking and some community of taste. That was Caroline's view of marriage, come to after a good deal of observation. Since her first season she had always intended to choose with her head. Her heart, she thought, would approve of her choice if she put her head first. The head, she had noticed, did not always approve afterwards when the heart had been allowed to decide. But love, of course, must not be left out of account in marriage. With the girl it could be safely left to spring out of liking; with the man it might do the same, but he must attain to it before he made his proposal. Francis seemed to have done that, and she knew him very well, and liked him. If she must be proposed to, she would prefer it to be in exactly this way—perhaps with the yew hedges grown a little more, and the squares of turf come closer together. But it would do very well as it was, with the fountain splashing in the lily pond, and the moonlight falling on the roofs and windows of the old house, which could be seen through the broad vista of the formal garden.
"I hadn't meant to marry just yet," Francis made his confession, as she did not immediately reply to him. "But for some time I've thought that when I did I should want to marry you—if you'd have me. Do you think you could, Caroline?"
"I don't know yet," said Caroline directly. "Why hadn't you meant to marry just yet?"
"Oh, well; I'm only twenty-seven, you know. I shouldn't want to marry yet for the sake of being married. Still, everything's changed when you're really in love with a girl. Then you do want to get married. You begin to see there's nothing like it. If I'd felt about you as I feel about you now, when I first knew you, I should have wanted to marry you then."
"I think I was only fifteen when we first knew each other."
"Was that all? Yes, it was when I'd just come down from Oxford. Well, I liked you then, and I've gone on liking you ever since. You were awfully attractive when you were fifteen. I believe I did fall in love with you then. You liked me too rather, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did. It was that day up the river. I was rather shy, as B and I were the only girls who weren't grown up. But you talked to us both, and were very nice. Oh, yes, Francis, I've always liked you."
"Well then, won't you try and love me a bit? I do love you, you know. If I've kept a cool head about it, it's because I think that's the best way, with a girl you're going to spend your life with—if you have the luck—until you're quite certain she is the girl you want. As a matter of fact there's never been another with me. If I haven't come forward, as they say in books, it hasn't been because I've ever thought about anybody else."