‘Ah, about the future—yes. Will you trust me, and wait?’
‘Through everything, Jerome, most implicitly,’ she replied, and this time there was no wavering in the glance which met his, full, open, and candid.
‘And would you prefer it to be kept quiet, or made known?’ he added; ‘because I wish to do exactly as you please in the matter.’
‘Let us not mention it,’ she replied slowly, and with downcast eyes. ‘My friends are very few, Jerome. Let us have the comfort—you and Avice and me—of keeping it quite to ourselves. I hate to think of people speculating about it.’
‘As you will. But suppose—how shall I put it? If it is imagined that you are free—Sara, you must know it is most improbable that no other man will ever wish to win you. Some one is sure to fall in love with you, and then——’
‘It is most unlikely—most improbable,’ she began, with a deep flush.
‘That any other man in existence should have the bad taste to admire what I have found so perfect and so desirable,’ he said, sarcastically.
‘My life is so quiet. I go out so little. Now, with Avice as my companion, and you to think of, I shall go still less.’
‘That is sophistry, Sara. Look at me, and tell me you honestly believe that, if you are supposed to be free, no man will ever care for you again?’
‘You are cruel to press it so. If such a thing should happen, it will not be my fault, and I should know how to set him right on the subject,’ she said, proudly.