She was so capricious that she might forget him while he was gone. She might find some one she loved better and throw him over, as she had once gayly threatened.
The anguish of the thought almost took his breath away.
He determined on a bold step. He would entreat her to consent to a quiet marriage and go abroad with him.
“If she loves me half as well as I love her she will be willing to do as I wish, rather than face a separation of uncertain duration,” he said to himself, and plunged boldly into the subject, encouraged by the dismay and sympathy with which she received his news.
“You will miss me a little, Viola, my darling?” he cried, eagerly, when he saw the bright eyes softened with the dew of tears.
“More than a little, dear Florian!” she cried, warmly, for her really tender heart was softened by his grief. It pained her, too, to have him go away like this. There was no one else whose society was half so agreeable.
Taking quick advantage of her tender admissions, he plunged into the subject nearest his heart, begging her to marry him tonight or tomorrow and go with him abroad.
Viola was speechless at first with astonishment. When she caught her breath, she refused promptly.
“I thought you pretended to love me,” he cried, reproachfully.
“So I do, Florian, very dearly, but not enough to marry you offhand without a trousseau.”