"Do you know what I wish?" she repeated.
"No; if I did I should do it, you may be quite sure, Doris."
"I wish that we—you and I—were married; that I was your wife, and that we had gone far away from here, away where no one knows us, where we could be quite happy, alone and together."
"Do you really wish that, Doris?" he asked.
Her face flushed slightly, but her voice did not tremble.
"I do really wish it," she replied. "If papa were willing we would be married this summer, and we could go away, Earle, to some far-off land; then—when we had been happy for some time—we could come home again. I should have grown quite strong by then, and I should have found health, strength, and peace, all with you."
There was a strange mingling of doubt and rapturous happiness on his face.
"Do you really mean this, Doris?" he asked. "Would you—the queen of the season, the fairest object of man's worship—would you give up all your triumphs, all your gayeties, and prefer to live in quiet and solitude with me?"
There was a slight hesitation for one half moment; he was so noble, so true. It was pitiful to use his great love for the obtaining of her own ends; but she must save herself—she must do that.
"You may believe me, Earle," she replied, gently; "if it could be, I would far rather it were so."