“I am not, my dear. I’ve thought of it for a week,” said the ardent lover.
“A week! you don’t call that much time to decide for life!” Adele was now as serious as her lover was ardent.
“I decided at Olympus—oh, months ago,” said Paul, a little nervous. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes, but this is like a surprise, after all, when it comes to the actual. I must have some time. Oh, Paul, you’re so—impatient; just like a boy.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? I feel as if we were really married that evening when under the brow of Olympus”—and in one sense this was true; Paul had felt so, conscientiously, as to the bond between them.
“Do you? I don’t,” said Adele.
“Why you must have thought so,” said Paul, very inconsiderate in his ardor.
Adele thought him too harsh to her, at such a time; and her manner showed how uncomfortable he had made her feel.
It took Paul some little time to quiet his own ardor, and appreciate things from her point of view; finally he succeeded.
“Adele, I suppose it is sudden; I had a wrong notion, an idea that the suddenness was only read about in novels of impulse, written to pass the time quickly. I know differently now; you see I never did it before. Forgive me now, Adele; I never dreamed of hurting you in any way—it is too serious.” Paul’s ardor had only taken another form.