"Why, so you were," says Clarissa, "terribly alive,—but only on one subject. By the by, has any one seen papa lately? He had some new books from town to-day,—some painfully old books, I mean,—and has not been found since. I am certain he will be discovered some day buried beneath ancient tomes; perhaps, indeed, it will be this day. Will you two forgive me if I go to see if it is yet time to dig him out?"
They forgive her; and presently find themselves alone.
"Is it all true, I wonder?" says Dorian, after a little pause. He is holding her hand, and is looking down at her with a fond sweet smile that betrays the deep love of his heart.
"Quite true; at least, I hope so," with an answering smile. Then, "I am so glad you are going to marry me," she says, without the faintest idea of shyness; "more glad than I can tell you. Ever since—since I was left alone, I have had no one belonging to me,—that is, no one quite my own; and now I have you. You will always be fonder of me than of anybody else in the world, won't you?"
She seems really anxious as she asks this.
"My darling, of course I shall. How could you ask me such a question? And you, Georgie, do you love me?"
"Love you? Yes, I suppose so; I don't know,"—with decided hesitation. "I am certain I like you very, very much. I am quite happy when with you, and you don't bore me a bit. Is that it?"
This definition of what love may be, hardly comes up to the mark in Mr. Branscombe's estimation.
She has risen, and is now looking up at him inquiringly, with eyes earnest and beautiful and deep, but so cold. They chill him in spite of his efforts to disbelieve in their fatal truthfulness.