"But why should this be told only to your second wife?"
"Because I should wish to show her that my true love is hers; hers only in spite of my early marriage. The rest of the world it concerns not, and will never be spoken of to them."
"You assume confidently that you will feel this love for your second wife?"
"I shall if I marry her. That is by no means sure. Unless I marry her, the one to whom my love is given, I shall never marry at all."
Ah, where was the use of keeping up this farce? It was like children playing at bo-peep with the handkerchief over the face. The other is there, but we pretend to know it not. With their hearts wildly beating in unison--with her hand shaking visibly in its emotion--with the consciousness that concealment was no longer concealment but full and perfect knowledge, stood they. Mary Anne rejoined, her words more and more at random, her wits utterly gone a-woolgathering.
"And why should you not marry her?"
"I am not in a position to ask for her of her father."
It was all over in a moment. Save that he turned suddenly to look at her, and laid his hand on hers as if to still its trembling, Mary Anne Thornycroft doubted ever after if she had not made the first movement. Only a moment, and her head was lying on his breast, his clasped arms were holding her there, their pulses were tingling with rapture, their lips clinging together in a long and ardent kiss.
"Dare I speak to you, Mary Anne?" he asked, hoarsely.
"You know you may."