"Francis, you are a dreamer. Society is gone; you can't restore it. I see only a lovely woman its victim. I am not responsible for the condition that made her one and I certainly shall not stand by and see her suffer because the world is rotten--nor would you--don't protest, I know you, too. So I am going to raise her as high as man can raise a woman. She deserves it. She deserves infinitely more. I am only sorry I can't raise her higher. I am going to make her my wife; and you, Francis, shall dance at the wedding. Oh, you needn't throw up your hands--you are going to dance at the wedding."
"Non posso, non posso. I cannot dance, Robert."
"You don't mean, Francis," demanded Kimberly severely suspicious, "to tell me you would like me the less--that you would be other than you have been to me--if you saw me happily married?"
"How could I ever be different to you from what I have been? Every day, Robert, I pray for you."
Kimberly's brows contracted. "Don't do it."
Francis's face fell. "Not?"
"For the present let me alone. I'm doing very well. The situation is delicate."
Francis's distress was apparent, and Kimberly continued good-naturedly to explain. "Don't stir God up, Francis; don't you see? Don't attract his attention to me. I'm doing very well. All I want is to be let alone."
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"By the way, how does it seem to be quite a free woman?" said Kimberly one evening to Alice.