“My dearest, you are full of mystery to-day,” he said, “and I am as full of curiosity. But I can wait. Consider me a statue of patience standing by the way-side, and take your time.”
She put her hand through Hulbert’s arm, and led him away from the other two, sauntering slowly along beside the grassy bank.
“I want to talk about your wedding,” she said, as soon as they were out of hearing. “When are you and Allegra going to be married?”
“My dear Mrs. Disney, you know that I pledged myself to wait a year from the time of our engagement—a year from last Christmas—you must remember. That was to be my probation.”
“Yes, I remember; but that is all foolishness—idle romance. Allegra knows that you love her. I don’t think she could know it any better after another half-year’s devotion on your part.”
“I don’t think she could know it better after another half century. I know I could never love her more than I do now. I know I shall never love her less.”
“I believe that you are good and true,” said Isola. “As true and—almost—as good as he is”—with a backward glance at her husband. “If I did not believe that I should not have thought of saying what I am going to say.”
“I am honoured by your confidence in me.”
“I love Allegra too well to hazard her happiness. I know she loves you—has never cared for any one else. She was heart-whole till she saw you. She had no more thought of love, or lovers, than a child. I want you to marry her soon, Captain Hulbert—very soon, before we leave Rome. Would you not like to be married in Rome?”
“I would like to be married in Kamtchatka, or Nova Zembla—or the worst of those places whose very names suggest uncomfortableness. There is no dismallest corner of the earth which Allegra could not glorify and make dear. But, as you suggest, Rome is classic—Rome is mediæval—Rome is Roman Catholic. It would be a new sensation for a plain man like me to be married in Rome. I suppose it could not be managed in St. Peter’s?”