‘You do love me, Marian?’
‘I love you.’
And there followed the antiphony of ardour that finds its first utterance—a subdued music, often interrupted, ever returning upon the same rich note.
Marian closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the luxury of the dream. It was her first complete escape from the world of intellectual routine, her first taste of life. All the pedantry of her daily toil slipped away like a cumbrous garment; she was clad only in her womanhood. Once or twice a shudder of strange self-consciousness went through her, and she felt guilty, immodest; but upon that sensation followed a surge of passionate joy, obliterating memory and forethought.
‘How shall I see you?’ Jasper asked at length. ‘Where can we meet?’
It was a difficulty. The season no longer allowed lingerings under the open sky, but Marian could not go to his lodgings, and it seemed impossible for him to visit her at her home.
‘Will your father persist in unfriendliness to me?’
She was only just beginning to reflect on all that was involved in this new relation.
‘I have no hope that he will change,’ she said sadly.
‘He will refuse to countenance your marriage?’