"You have no right to say I should wish, that!" said Caroline, offended.
"You don't know what the love is that you are holding so cheaply."
"I beg your pardon, Caroline," and Marian was thrown into herself again; but she thought a little longer, and seeing that Caroline was still waiting and musing, she ventured on saying, in a timid voice, "Somehow, I think, it would seem to me that the more affection there was, the more painful it would all be."
"You are right there, Marian," exclaimed Caroline, in a voice of acute feeling.
It was a strange question that Marian next asked abruptly, on an impulse sudden at the moment, though it was what she had long eagerly desired to know. "Do you love him after all?"
Caroline did not seem vexed by the inquiry, but went on speaking rather as if she was examining herself as to the answer,—"Love him? I don't know; sometimes I think I do, sometimes I think not. It is not as people in books love, and—and it can't be as your Agnes must love Mr. Arundel."
A most emphatic "O no!" escaped from Marian, she hardly knew how, as if it was profanation to compare Mr. Faulkner to Edmund; and perhaps the strongest proof that Caroline's was not a real attachment, was that she let it pass. "But then," pursued she warmly, "I am sure he is attached to me—yes, very much—and—well, and I am glad to see him come into the room; I like to walk with him. There is no one—no—no one in the whole world whom I like so well. All my doubts and fears go away at the first sound of his voice, and I am quite happy then. O, Marian, that surely is love?"
"I don't know," said Marian; "I can't fancy love that has not begun with esteem, with looking up,"
"I do look up!" said Caroline, eagerly. "He is so clever, so sensible, has such a mind."
"I did not mean looking up intellectually,"
"Ah! you can live in that way," said Caroline, quickly; "your own people are all of that sort. But you know I should never have had any one at all to love, if I had begun looking for that kind of thing, even at home."