"But then," said I, "this world and I have always mutually despised each other."
"She ran away, this woman—eloped with the most notorious, the most accomplished rake in London."
"Well?"
"Oh!—is not that enough?"
"Enough for what, Charmian?" I saw her busy fingers falter and tremble, but her voice was steady when she answered:
"Enough to make any—wise man think twice before asking this Humble
Person to—to marry him."
"I might think twenty times, and it would be all one!"
"You—mean—?"
"That if Charmian Brown will stoop to marry a village blacksmith, Peter Vibart will find happiness again; a happiness that is not of the sunshine—nor the wind in the trees—Lord, what a fool I was!" Her fingers had stopped altogether now, but she neither spoke nor raised her head.
"Charmian," said I, leaning nearer across the table, "speak."