"The wife of some happy man."
"Why are you so sure?"
"Of what?"
"That he will be happy."
"Could he be otherwise with you?"
All this was pointed enough; but both were fencing—he dreading a repulse, and she thinking of her father's pride. Yet both were very pale, and their hearts beat violently.
"And how came you to be so assured of all this?" she asked, looking down.
"You are beautiful, rich, noble, Clara!"
"You must not call me Clara. Rich? You think, then, that no one would love me for myself alone?" she asked a little bitterly.
"I have not said so."