He wandered and he watched, he spoke absently to Clara, but felt as if robbed of a protector, when she was summoned up-stairs to attend to her packing, and Mary remained alone, writing one of her long letters to Lima.
'Now or never,' thought he, 'before my courage cools. I never saw my father in such spirits!'
He sat down on an ottoman opposite to her, and turned over some newspapers with a restless rustling.
'Can I fetch anything for you?' asked Mary, looking up.
'No, thank you. You are a great deal too good to me, Mary.'
'I am glad,' said Mary, absently, anxious to go on with her letter; but, looking up again at him—'I am sure you want something.'
'No—nothing—but that you should be still more good to me.'
'What is the matter?' said Mary, suspecting that he was beginning to repent of his lazy fit, and wanted her to hear his confession.
'I mean, Mary,' said he, rising, and speaking faster, 'if you—if you would take charge of me altogether. If you would have me, I would do all I could to make you happy, and it would be such joy to my father, and—'(rather like an after-thought)'to me.'
Her clear, sensible eyes were raised, and her colour deepened, but the confusion was on the gentleman's side—she was too much amazed to feel embarrassment, and there was a pause, till he added, 'I know better than to think myself worthy of you; but you will take me in hand—and, indeed, Mary, there is no one whom I like half so well.'