"If you did, what then, Clarissa?"
"It might be different. I might be foolish enough, wicked enough—But I am sure that this folly of yours is no more than a passing fancy. You will go away and forget all about me. You would be very sorry by-and-by, if I were weak enough to take you at your word; just as sorry as you are now for your engagement to Lady Geraldine. Come, Mr. Fairfax, let us both be sensible, if we can, and let there be an end of this folly for evermore between us. Good-night; I must go home. It is half-past eight o'clock, and at nine papa has his tea."
"You shall go home in time to pour out Mr. Lovel's tea; but you shall hear me out first, Clarissa, and you shall confess to me. I will not be kept in the dark."
And then he urged his cause, passionately, eloquently, or with that which seemed eloquence to the girl of nineteen, who heard him with pale cheeks and fast-throbbing heart, and yet tried to seem unmoved. Plead as he might, he could win no admission from her. It was only in her eyes, which could not look denial, on her tremulous lips, which could not simulate coldness, that he read her secret. There he saw enough to make him happy and triumphant.
"Say what you please, my pitiless one," he cried at last; "in less than three months you shall be my wife!"
The church-clock chimed the three-quarters. He had no excuse for keeping her any longer.
"Come then, Clarissa," he said, drawing her hand through his arm; "let me see you to your father's door."
"But your horse—you can't leave him here?"
"Yes, I can. I don't suppose any one will steal him in a quarter of an hour or so; and I daresay we shall meet some village urchin whom I can send to take care of him."
"There is no occasion. I am quite accustomed to walk about Arden alone."