"Only one thing more," says this insatiable young man, who evidently holds in high esteem the maxim to "strike while the iron is hot." "You agree to a renewal of our engagement?"
"I suppose so. Although I know it is an act of selfishness on my part. Nothing can possibly come of it."
"And if it is selfishness in you, what is it in me?" asks he, humbly. "You know as well as I do I am no match for you, who, with your face, your voice" (Molly winces perceptibly), "your manner, might marry whom you choose. Yet I do ask you to wait"—eagerly—"until something comes to our aid, to be true to me, no matter what happens, until I can claim you."
"I will wait; I will be true to you," she answers, with dewy eyes uplifted to his, and a serene, earnest face. As she gives her promise a little sigh escapes her, more full of content, I think, than any regret.
After coming to this conclusion they talk more rationally for an hour or so (a lover's hour, dear reader, is not as other hours; it never drags; it is not full of yawns; it does not make us curse the day we were born); and then Luttrell, by some unlucky chance, discovers he must tear himself away.
As Molly rises to bid him good-bye, she catches her breath, and presses her hand to her side.
"I have such a pain here," she says.
"You don't go out," says her lover, severely; "you want air. I shall speak to Letitia if you won't take more care of yourself."
"I have not been out of the house for so long, I quite dread going."
"Then go to-morrow. If you will walk to the wood nearest you,—where you will see no one,—I will meet you there."