“I cannot find a suitable form of expression,” said Lucian, in painful perplexity. “I am sure you will not attribute any sordid motive to my—well, to my addresses, though the term seems absurd. I am too well aware that there is little, from the usual point of view, to tempt you to unite yourself to me. Still—”
A rapid change in Lydia’s face showed him that he had said enough. “I had not thought of this,” she said, after a silence that seemed long to him. “Our observations are so meaningless until we are given the thread to string them on! You must think better of this, Lucian. The relation that at present exists between us is the very best that our different characters will admit of. Why do you desire to alter it?”
“Because I would make it closer and more permanent. I do not wish to alter it otherwise.”
“You would run some risk of simply destroying it by the method you propose,” said Lydia, with composure. “We could not co-operate. There are differences of opinion between us amounting to differences of principle.”
“Surely you are not serious. Your political opinions, or notions, are not represented by any party in England; and therefore they are practically ineffective, and could not clash with mine. And such differences are not personal matters.”
“Such a party might be formed a week after our marriage—will, I think, be formed a long time before our deaths. In that case I fear that our difference of opinion would become a very personal matter.”
He began to walk more quickly as he replied, “It is too absurd to set up what you call your opinions as a serious barrier between us. You have no opinions, Lydia. The impracticable crotchets you are fond of airing are not recognized in England as sane political convictions.”
Lydia did not retort. She waited a minute in pensive silence, and then said,
“Why do you not marry Alice Goff?”
“Oh, hang Alice Goff!”