"Declaring our engagement would soon put an end to all that," he said, thoughtfully.
But that was not what the Lady Doris wanted; she wanted him to urge their marriage.
"Yes," she said, "we might make it known, but people would not believe it; it would not save me from the importunities of other men."
He looked wonderingly at her. After all, it was a new feature in her character—this dread of lovers.
"That is not all, Earle," she said, clasping her soft, warm fingers round his hands. "I tell you—no one but you—this life is a little too much for me. Before I had recovered from the great shock of the change, I was plunged into the very whirlpool of London life. Do not imagine I have joined the list of invalids, or that I have grown nervous, or any nonsense of that kind: it is not so; but at times I feel a great failure of strength, a deadly faintness or weakness that is hard to fight against—a horrible foreboding for which I cannot account."
Her face grew pale, and her eyes seemed to lose their light as she spoke.
"I am sure," she continued, "that it is from over-fatigue. Do you not think so, Earle?"
"Yes," he replied; "now, what is the remedy?"
"I know the remedy. It would be to give all up for a time, and take a long rest—a long rest," her voice seemed to die away like the softest murmur of a sighing wind.
Earle felt almost alarmed; this was so completely novel, this view of Doris, who had always been bright, piquant, and gay.