Morris wondered if the same admirable virtue caused his hostess to refrain from inviting him to stay and dine at Porthlew that evening, but when she showed no such inclination at seven o’clock he felt obliged to exclaim:
“I say, how late it is! I must be getting back.”
“Give my love to your mother,” said Bertha cordially. “She must come over again before we go up North.”
“I’ll drive her over,” declared Morris with alacrity. “Good-bye.”
All that evening he was haunted by Rosamund’s deep eyes, by the sound of her sweet, serious voice. He told himself exultantly that he had met his ideal, and that he, and he alone was capable of loving her as she should be loved. He also cursed himself as a cold-blooded fool for not having told her then and there of his love. What senseless scruple had restrained him? He resolved to see her again the next day.
Rosamund, that night, lay awake till dawn in an excitement that was as utterly out of proportion as were all her emotions. She told herself, in pure and single-minded earnestness, that this, which was to transmute her life to gold, was different to anything else in the world.
Morris, who had fallen in love before, also told himself, with fiery determination, that this was different to anything else in the world.
VI
“THE sooner I pack up my young lady and take her off to Scotland, the better, I think,” said Bertha decisively.
“It’s all so silly,” sighed Nina vaguely. “But I really don’t know—I shouldn’t mind it, you know, Bertie, if he seriously wants it—only I think he’s too young. I’ve always hoped he’d marry a daughter of yours, and Rosamund’s as good as your daughter, though between ourselves, I’ve always been fonder of both the other two.”