"That is a blunt question, my lady," he said; "would it be fair to reply, fair to her, supposing that there be one?"
"In whom should you confide but in me?" said the countess, with a touch of hauteur in her voice, hauteur softened by love.
He looked down and turned the ruby ring on his finger. If he could but confide in her!
"In whom else but in me, from whom you have, I think, had few secrets? If your choice is made, you would come to me, Leycester? I think you would; I cannot imagine your acting otherwise. You see I have no fear"—and she smiled—"no fear that your choice would be anything but a good and a wise one. I know you so well, Leycester. You have been wild—you yourself said it, not I!"
"Yes," he said, quietly.
"But through it all you have not forgotten the race from whence you sprung, the name you bear. No, I do not fear that most disastrous of all mistakes which a man in your position can make—a mesalliance."
He was silent, but his brows drew together.
"You speak strangely, my lady," he said, almost grimly.
"Yes," she assented, calmly, serenely, but with a grave intensity in her tone which lent significance to every word—"yes, I feel strongly. Every mother who has a son in your position feels as strongly, I doubt not. There are few mad things that you can do which will not admit of remedy and rectification; one of them, the worst of them, is a foolish marriage."
"Marriages are made in heaven," he murmured.