But Lucinda, in a pensive turn, shook her head and, eyeing him gravely, murmured: "I wonder...."
"What do you wonder, Cinda?"
"What you told me last night.... Was it true?"
"That I had never stopped being in love with you? God help me! that was true enough, too true."
"Then I wonder if it's fair to you, and to me, the way we're going. I mean...." She faltered, with a sign of petulance. "Be patient with me, Dobbin. It isn't easy to figure some things out, you know. I mean, if you are in love with me——"
"Forget the 'if'."
"And Bel is not.... Oh, no, he isn't! He's in love with the figure he cuts as my lord and master and the dashing beau of every other pretty woman—not with me. Well! since you are and he isn't, and I'm discontented, and so fond of you, Dobbin: is it fair to either of us—because I'm bound to think of you, you know, and can't very well think of you dispassionately...." She concluded with a little shrug and a deprecating smile. "I don't know, Dobbin, I really don't know!"
"It isn't fair," he said—"of course—unless—"
She nodded seriously: "That's just it."
"I can only say, Cinda, whatever you do or say or think is right. It's all for you to decide."