“Not a word. It may be indifference, or it may be that, in a sense of security about the future, he does not care to trouble himself.”
“Nay, scarcely that,” said the other, thoughtfully.
“Whatever the cause, you will own it is not very flattering to me,” said she, flushing deeply.
“And Mr. Layton,—is he possessed of the same calm philosophy? Has he the same trustful reliance on destiny?” said Mrs. Morris, who, apparently examining the lace border of her handkerchief, yet stole a passing glance at the other's face.
“How can you ask such a question? What is he to me, or I to him? If he ever thought of me, besides, he must have remembered that the difference of station between us presents an insurmountable objection.”
“As if Love asked for anything better,” cried Mrs. Morris, laughingly. “Why, dearest, the passion thrives on insurmountable objections, just the way certain fish swallow stones, not for nutriment, but to aid digestion by a difficulty. If he be the man I take him for, he must hug an obstacle to his heart as a Heaven-sent gift. Be frank with me, May,” said she, passing her arm affectionately round her waist; “confess honestly that he told you as much.”
“No; he never said that,” muttered she, half reluctantly. “What he said was that if disparity of condition was the only barrier between us,—if he were sure, or if he could even hope, that worldly success could open an avenue to my heart—”
“That he 'd go and be Prime Minister of England next session.
'If doughty deeds
My lady please!'
That was his tone, was it? Oh dear! and I fancied the man had something new or original about him. Truth is, dearest, it is in love as in war,—there are nothing but the same old weapons to fight with, and we are lost or won just as our great-great-grandmothers were before us.”