"That is not the question," he replied. "Surely I am old enough to know my own mind. Besides, you do not seem conscious of your power. You could make a bishop fall in love with you in ten minutes, if you chose!"
There came a depth of tenderness in her eyes, a smile, half sad, half sweet, about her lips, which he interpreted in his own way.
"Do you think so?" said she. "I wish I could believe you. I've not had a happy youth, and I've not been brought up in a very good school. I often tell myself I could, and ought to have been better, but somehow one's whole life seems to be a mistake!"
"A mistake I could rectify, if you would give me the right," answered St. Josephs, disheartened, but not despairing. "I only ask you to judge me fairly, to trust me honestly, and to love me some day, if you can!"
She gave him her hand. He drew her towards him, and pressed his lips to her cold, smooth brow. No more, and yet he fancied she was his own at last. Already half pledged, already half an affianced wife. She released herself quickly, and sat down on the farther side of her work-table.
"You are very generous," she said, "and very good. I still maintain you deserve somebody far superior to me. How odd these sort of things are, and why do they never turn out as one—expects?"
She was going to say "wishes," but stopped herself in time.
He would not understand.
"Life is made up of hopes and disappointments," he observed. "You do not seem to hope much, Blanche. I trust, therefore, you will have less cause for disappointment. I will do all in my power. And now, dearest, do not call me impatient, fidgetty; but, when do you think I may look forward to—to making arrangements in which we are to be equally interested?"