“It would be too dreary, too sad-coloured, you think?”
“No,” said she, “not that.”
“You fear, perhaps, that these schemes of isolation have never succeeded: that weariness will come when there are no longer new objects to suggest interest or employment?”
“Not that,” said she, more faintly.
“Then the objection must be myself. Florence, is it that you would, not, that you could not, trust me with your happiness?”
“You ask for frankness, and you shall have it. I cannot except your offer. My heart is no longer mine to give.”
“And this—this engagement, has been for some time back?” asked he, almost sternly.
“Yes, for some time,” said she, faintly.
“Am I acquainted with the object of it? Perhaps I have no right to ask this. But there is a question I have full and perfect right to ask. How, consistently with such an engagement, have you encouraged the attentions I have paid you?”
“Attentions! and to me! Why, your attentions have been directed rather to my sister—at least, she always thought so—and even these we deemed the mere passing flirtations of one who made no secret of saying that he regarded marriage as an intolerable slavery, or rather, the heavy price that one paid for the pleasure of courtship.”