“Perhaps,” said he, hesitatingly, “I have offended, by keeping it so long without your consent—and more by displaying it as I have done. For the former I might claim excuse: on the plea that I had no opportunity of restoring it. But for the latter I fear I can offer no justification. I can only plead the promptings of a vain hope—of a passion, that I now believe to be hopeless, as it will be deemed presumptive.”
The tone of despondency in which this speech was delivered, struck sweetly on the ear of Marion Wade. It had the true ring of love’s utterance; and she intuitively recognised it. She could scarce conceal her joy as she made rejoinder:—
“Why should I be offended, either at your detaining the glove, or wearing it?” As she said this she regarded the cavalier with a forgiving smile. “The first was unavoidable; the other I ought to esteem an honour. Setting store by a lady’s favour is not the way, sir, to offend her.”
“Favour! Then she has meant it as such!”
Along with the unspoken thought, a gleam of returning confidence shot over the cavalier’s countenance.
“I can no longer endure the doubt,” muttered he: “I shall speak to her more plainly. Marion Wade!”
Her name was uttered aloud, and in a tone of appeal that caused her to glance up with some surprise. In her look there was no trace of displeasure at the familiar mode of address.
“Speak, sir!” she said, encouragingly. “You have something to say?”
“A question to ask—only one; and oh! Marion Wade, answer it with candour! You promise?”
“I promise.”