“I don’t like your morality at all, Lawrence; it is much better to fail in a bad trade.”
“Certainly; but, then, I did not know we were speaking morally. I was discussing the question from a worldly point of view. But go on with your reasons against our speedy marriage—there are still ninety eight to account for.”
“I—I—think I am afraid of you, Lawrence,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, looking down.
“Go on; that’s a reason with a reason, and, therefore, needs explaining.”
“I can’t explain it. I know I oughtn’t to be; and that you are one of those men who may be trusted; that I shall still keep your affection even when my beauty is waning. Still, when I picture the long future that may be before us, I get frightened.”
“Then you do not love me, Gwen. When I remember that we may have a long future I thrill with joy—because we shall be together always—unless death should part us. This is just what I have prayed and longed for, and I found myself getting terribly depressed the other day because I was twelve years older than you, and might have to leave you a little while alone in the world.”
His accent and expression showed such deep sincerity, such a passion of yearning love, that, although Lady Gwendolyn was rather chary of her caresses as a rule, thinking she had already made too many concessions, she bent down now, and laid her fresh, cool cheek against his hand.
“Don’t, darling,” he said diffidently. “You pain me.”
“Why not let me be a little humble, Lawrence? Balzac says that you can never be sure you have really won a woman’s love until she is on her knees before you.”
“I think I could bear to see you there if it had such a meaning.”