"Nothing. Don't alarm yourself—absolutely nothing. Three months ago when I spoke to you of marriage, you entreated me to allow you a little time in which to accustom yourself to my proposal. That time of probation, which has been, I hope, equally trying to us both, has ended to-day."
"But I don't think I really love you, Mr. Mullen."
"I trust your eyes rather than your words—and your eyes have told me, all unconsciously to yourself, your secret."
"Well, I do love your sermons, but—-"
"My sermons are myself. There is nothing in my life, I trust, that belies my preaching."
"I know how good you are, but honestly and truly, I don't want to marry anybody."
His smile hardened slowly on his face like an impression on metal that cools into solidity. From the beginning he had conducted his courtship, as he had conducted his sacred office, with the manner of a gentleman and the infallibility of an apostle. Doubt of his perfect fitness for either vocation had never entered his head. Had it done so he would probably have dismissed it as one of the insidious suggestions of the lower man—for the lower man was a creature who habitually disagreed with his opinions and whom his soul abhorred.
As he sat beside her, clerical, well-groomed, with his look of small yet solemn intelligence, she wondered seriously if he would, in spite of all opposition, have his way with her at last and pattern her to his liking?
"I am not in the least what you think me, Mr. Mullen—I don't know just how to say it—-"
"There is but one thing you need know, dearest, and that is that you love me. As our greatest poet has expressed it 'To know no more is woman's happiest knowledge.'"