"I don't consider our age—that is, seriously," she is saying; "but, Mobley, there are other things."
She paused and contemplated his back a moment.
"If what you see from that window is of more consequence than what I am saying," she observed, "I will—"
The Doctor wheeled about instantly, before she had done.
"Believe me, Charlotte," he made haste to protest, "you had my undivided attention. I saw nothing out of the window—or elsewhere; I was conscious only of your words."
His obvious sincerity satisfied her. She smiled and proceeded, the man watching her with sober, thoughtful eyes.
"I will confess something to you, Mobley, and perhaps you will understand better—why—why I hesitate." She paused again, and the Doctor could see that she was trying to overcome a nervousness and embarrassment quite foreign to her nature. But she conquered this feeling at once, and went on.
"Mobley," with added earnestness, her lustrous eyes bravely meeting his, "I am possessed of a pride so strong that I am afraid it is greater than my love. What a poor, miserable, wretched affection my love for you must be! I am ashamed of it."
"Oh, dear girl," he commenced with abrupt impetuosity; but she stopped him.
"No, no; let me finish. All my life, Mobley, I have lived more or less in the past. In my fancies we have not been poor; to me the poor little cottage we have called home has indeed been a home; and the dear old home that is sinking so rapidly into irremediable ruin only a phantasm of what might have been. But when I think of home, Mobley, the old place rises in my mind. It has been my constant yearning that it may be rehabilitated; that mamma, Clay, and I might once more foregather beneath its roof in the circumstances which I cannot help feeling are ours by right; and for this consummation I have looked to Clay with an unfaltering faith. Perhaps it is wicked, Mobley, but I cannot help it. If you take me, I want it to be from such a station; not like a mendicant creeping to shelter. Oh, I could not bear that!"