“Now that I have made my confession, will you let me have one of yours?” said he, in a low, soft voice.
“I’m not sure; what’s it to be about?”
“It’s about myself I want to question you.”
“About yourself! Surely you could not have hit upon a sorrier adviser, or a less experienced counsellor than I am.”
“I don’t want advice, Florence, I only want a fact; and from all I have seen of you, I believe you will deal fairly with me.”
She nodded assent, and he went on:
“In a few weeks more I shall be obliged to return to India; to a land I dislike, and a service I detest: to live amongst companions distasteful to me, and amidst habits and associations that, however endurable when I knew no better, are now become positively odious in my eyes. This is my road to rank, station, and honour. There is, however, another path; and if I relinquish this career, and give up all thought of ambition, I might remain in Europe—here, perhaps, on this very lake side—and lead a life of humble but unbroken happiness—one of those peaceful existences which poets dream of, but never realise, because it is no use in disparaging the cup of life till one has tasted and known its bitterness; and these men have not reached such experience—I have.”
He waited for her to speak—he looked eagerly at her for a word—but she was silent.
“The confession I want from you, Florence, is this: could you agree to share this life with me?”
She shook her head and muttered, but what he could not catch.