“What would that signify if your hearts caught fire? Do you think the affections ask leave of title-deeds?”
“Mine certainly did not. They had no need to do so. I was as frank with Ada as with you.” Scarcely was the last word out, than a deep crimson flash covered his cheek, and he felt overwhelmed with confusion, for he had said what, if true in one sense, might possibly convey a very different meaning in another. “I mean,” added he, stammeringly, “I told her all I have told you about my sea life.”
“You are a puzzle to me, Harry,” said she, after a pause. “You can enumerate a number of qualities with enthusiasm, and still declare that they had no influence over you. Is this the sailor temperament?”
“I suspect not,” said he, smiling. “I rather opine we salt-water folk are too free of our hearts.”
“But why were you not in love with her?” cried she, as she arose impatiently, and walked up and down the room. “You come off a life of hardships and perils into what, of all things, is the most entrancing—the dairy life of people bred up to all the courtesies and charms that embellish existence—and you find there a very beautiful girl, well disposed to accept your intimacy and your friendship—how can you stop at friendship? I want to hear that.”
“I never knew there was any difficulty in the task till now that you have told me of it,” said he, smiling.
She opened a little drawer in a cabinet as she stood with her back towards him, and drew on her finger a ring—a certain plain gold ring—which recalled a time of bygone sorrow and suffering, and then, coming close to him, laid her hand upon his arm, so that he could but notice the ring, and said:
“I ought to have remembered you were a Luttrell, Harry—the proud race who never minded what might bechance their heads, though they took precious care of their hearts!”
“What does that mean?” said he, pointing to the ring; and a paleness like death spread over his face.
“What does such an emblem always mean?” said she, calmly. “It is not that you are married, Kate?