Lucian went over to the table and sat down. He trembled, and for some moments did not speak. At last he said—
“There’s no one to blame but me. If I did not know her, who should? I thought I was right, and all the time I was wrong. There’s only one thing to be done now, to go back and renew my offer at once and unconditionally, and to let every one know that I have done so.”
“If your feelings remain the same—”
“My feelings? It’s my duty.”
“But,” said Sylvester, breathlessly, “if—if you no longer loved her.—I don’t think—”
“Love her? Why, you know I do. I always did,” said Lucian.
“Then, Lucy,” said Sylvester, “I’m afraid that there’s a good deal of disappointment in store for you. If she is not engaged to Grattan, she is on the point of it, and there are scores of other men after her. She has had a great success, and all London raves about her. I doubt her father’s consent, and her pretensions are so great—”
“I can’t help that,” said Lucian. “It is my place to let every one about her know that I wish to marry her, and that, if she refuses me, it is her own doing. I’ll go up through the night, and see her to-morrow.”
He got up, and opening a travelling writing-case, took from it a little parcel, containing a photograph in a leather frame. He looked at it for a minute, then laid it before his friend.
It was the girl Amethyst, in a little country-made dress, with her hat in her hand, and her eyes looking happily out, in pleased expectation of the next thing that was coming, whatever it might be.