"I wonder," she continued, "that the thing has not come about before this, and without any word of mine. I don't think you are very hard-hearted, unimpressionable, Leycester. You and I have met some beautiful women, and some good and pure ones. I should not have been surprised if you had come to me with the confession of your conquest long ago. You would have come to me, would you not, Leycester?" she asked.
A faint flush stole over his face, and his eyes dropped slightly. He did not answer for a moment, and she went on as if he had assented.
"I should have been very glad to have heard of it. I should have welcomed your choice very heartily."
"Are you sure?" he said, almost mechanically.
"Quite," she answered, serenely. "Your wife will be a second daughter to me, I hope, Leycester. I know that I should love her if you do; are we ever at variance?"
"Never until to-night," he might have answered, but he remained silent.
What if he should turn to her with the frank openness with which he had gone to her in all his troubles and joys, and say:
"I have made my choice—welcome her. She is Stella Etheridge, the painter's daughter."
But he could not do this; he knew so well how she would have looked at him, saw already with full prophetic insight the calm, serene smile of haughty incredulity with which she would have received his demand. He was silent.