"I think all unsuitable marriages a crime," he says, coldly. "Sooner or later they lead to the bitterest of all repentance. To marry one one cannot respect! Surely such an act carries with it its own punishment. It is a hateful thought. But then——"
"You do not understand," pleads Lilian, rising in her eagerness, and going nearer to him, while her large eyes read his face nervously as she trembles for the success of her undertaking. "There is no question of 'respect.' It is not that I mean. These two of whom I speak will never repent, because they love each other so entirely."
"What a stress you lay on the word love!" he says, in a half-mocking, wholly bitter tone. "Do you believe in it?"
"I do, indeed. I cannot think there is anything in this world half so good as it," replies she, with conviction, while reddening painfully beneath his gaze. "Is it not our greatest happiness?"
"I think it is our greatest curse."
"How can you say that?" with soft reproach. "Can you not see for yourself how it redeems all the misery of life for some people?"
"Those two fortunate beings of whom you are speaking, for instance," with a sneer. "All people are not happy in their attachment. What is to become of those miserable wretches who love, but love in vain? Did you never hear of a homely proverb that tells you 'one man's meat is another man's poison'?"
"You are cynical to-day. But to return; the two to whom I allude have no poison to contend with. They love so well that it is misery to them to be apart,—so devotedly that they know no great joy except when they are together. Could such love cool? I am sure not. And is it not cruel to keep them asunder?"
Her voice has grown positively plaintive; she is evidently terribly in earnest.
"Are you speaking of yourself?" asks Guy, huskily, turning with sudden vehemence to lay his hand upon her arm and scan her features with intense, nay, feverish anxiety.