He looked at her with a gleam of pleasure and relief in his eyes, little dreaming that it was for his sake she had made the proposal.
"How strange!" he muttered. "It—well, it is unlike what one fancies of you, Lenore."
"Perhaps," she said, with a smile, "but it is true, nevertheless. If I may choose, I would like to go down to the little church there, and be married like a farmer's daughter, or, if not that exactly, as quietly as possible."
He rose and stood looking out of the window, thoughtfully.
"I shall never understand you, Lenore." he said; "but this pleases me very much indeed. It has always been my day-dream, as you call it,"—he smothered a sigh. "Certainly it shall be as you wish! Why should it not be?"
"Very well," she said; "then that is agreed. No announcements, no fuss, no St. George's, Hanover Square, and no bishop!" and she rose and laughed softly.
He looked at her, and smiled.
"You appear in a new light every day, Lenore," he said. "If you had expressed my own thoughts and desires, you could not have hit them off more exactly; what will the mother say?"
The countess had a great deal to say about the matter. She declared that it was absurd, that it was worse than absurd; it was preposterous.
"It is all very well to talk of a farmer's daughter, my dear, but you are not a farmer's daughter; you are Lady Lenore Beauchamp, and he is the next earl. The world will say you have both taken leave of your senses."