John knew very well that it lay within his powers to make good his claim upon that gentle heart, and enforce his will and her submission to it. But the strongest natures are those which least incline to tyranny; and he had already seen the results of coercion upon that bright and joyous, but timid nature. He knew that her love for him was of the fanciful, romantic, high-flown order; and as such, it appealed to every chivalrous instinct within him. Though his love for her was, perhaps, of a different kind, he desired her happiness and her peace of mind, as strongly as he desired her companionship and the sympathy which was to brighten his lonely life. He was silent for a moment, considering how he should act. If love counselled haste, common sense suggested patience.
"I couldn't disappoint him now. You see that, John?" said the anxious, gentle voice.
"I am afraid I do see it, Mary," he said. "Our secret must remain our secret for the present."
"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary, softly. "You always understand."
"I am old enough, at least, to know that happiness cannot be attained by setting duty aside," he said, as cheerfully as he could.
There was a pause in the music outside, and a voice was heard speaking.
John rose and straightened himself.
"Have you decided what is to be done—what we had best do?" she said timidly.
"I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted, and yet perfectly reasonable; in defiance of all tradition to the contrary," he said gaily. "I shall return to town as soon as I can decently get away—probably to-morrow."
She uttered a cry. "You are going to leave me?"