The triumph in Philip's voice, of which he himself seemed to be half ashamed, touched Lily acutely.
He might say, in all sincerity, that he did not wish to persuade her, but he could have found no more effective means of so doing than by his very forbearance.
His wistful pride in the opportunity that he so obviously was longing to see her accept, and the restraint that he put upon himself in order to leave her free, filled Lily with a passionate wish to please him.
She knew that, were she to disappoint him in this, he would not reproach her. Only the mute pathos of a deepened silence, a more constant melancholy, would do that.
"He wants me to be happy, after all," reflected Lily, knowing also that Philip would only see happiness for her in just such a marriage, in just such a life, incapable of believing in the reality of any happiness that he could not personally apprehend.
Nor, indeed, had Lily any specific alternative interpretation of the term to submit to him. Marriage, in spite of Miss Melody, had always appeared to her as the natural goal of woman, and she was young enough to tell herself very seriously that this, her first offer of marriage, might perhaps also prove to be her last. The dread of perpetual maidenhood, in fact, possessed Lily so firmly that she almost found herself urging it to Miss Melody herself, as a reason for accepting Nicholas Aubray. For Miss Melody, interested and incisive as ever, had spoken.
"Childie dear, listen to me. You must weigh the pros and the cons very, very carefully. I'm very glad you take this question seriously, Lily, very glad indeed. Now, dearie, do you know what I recommend? Write it all down, Lily, put it all on to paper. Write down the For and Against, just as though it were one of the old school exercises. There's nothing like method, dearie—you know that's what I always say. Do you think me very unromantic?"
In truth, Lily did think so, and she looked apologetically at Miss Melody.
Her old schoolmistress laughed heartily.
"Well, well, it's very natural you should think so, but you must beware of that romantic little head of yours. Do you remember, Lily, when you were leaving school, that I warned you against letting your imagination run away with you? Oh, you've improved since those days, I know—I know. But now, my dear child, you have come to cross-roads, and there must be no mistake here. It's too important. Tell me, what does your father say to you about this?"