“She liked me at King’s Lorton, when she was a little girl, because I used to sit with her brother a great deal when he had hurt his foot. She had kept that in her memory, and thought of me as a friend of a long while ago. She didn’t think of me as a lover when she met me.”
“Well, but you made love to her at last. What did she say then?” said Wakem, walking about again.
“She said she did love me then.”
“Confound it, then; what else do you want? Is she a jilt?”
“She was very young then,” said Philip, hesitatingly. “I’m afraid she hardly knew what she felt. I’m afraid our long separation, and the idea that events must always divide us, may have made a difference.”
“But she’s in the town. I’ve seen her at church. Haven’t you spoken to her since you came back?”
“Yes, at Mr Deane’s. But I couldn’t renew my proposals to her on several grounds. One obstacle would be removed if you would give your consent,—if you would be willing to think of her as a daughter-in-law.”
Wakem was silent a little while, pausing before Maggie’s picture.
“She’s not the sort of woman your mother was, though, Phil,” he said, at last. “I saw her at church,—she’s handsomer than this,—deuced fine eyes and fine figure, I saw; but rather dangerous and unmanageable, eh?”
“She’s very tender and affectionate, and so simple,—without the airs and petty contrivances other women have.”