"That would be unjust to Julia," I interrupted. "She must not be sacrificed to me any longer. I do not suppose I shall ever marry—"
"You must marry, Martin," she interrupted in her turn, and speaking emphatically; "you are altogether unfitted for a bachelor's life. It is all very well for Dr. John Senior, who has never known a woman's companionship, and who can do without it. But it is misery to you—this cold, colorless life. No. Of all the men I ever knew, you are the least fitted for a single life."
"Perhaps I am," I admitted, as I recalled my longing for some sign of womanhood about our bachelor dwelling.
"I am certain of it," she said. "Now, but for our precipitation last night, you would have gone naturally to Julia for comfort. So my brother sends word that he is going back to Guernsey to-night, leaving us in Hanover Street, where we are close to you. We have said nothing to Julia yet. She is crying over this sad news—mourning for your sorrow. You know that my brother has not spoken directly to Julia of his love; and now all that is in the past, and is to be as if it had never been, and we go on exactly as if we had not had that conversation yesterday."
"But that cannot be," I remonstrated. "I cannot consent to Julia wasting her love and time upon me. I assure you most solemnly I shall never marry my cousin now."
"You love her?" said Johanna.
"Certainly," I answered, "as my sister."
"Better than any woman now living?" she pursued.
"Yes," I replied.
"That is all Julia requires," she continued; "so let us say no more at present, Martin. Only understand that all idea of marriage between her and my brother is quite put away. Don't argue with me, don't contradict me. Come to see us as you would have done but for that unfortunate conversation last night. All will come right by-and-by."