"Oh, my love--my love! It is you I would, if possible, make my wife. None other. But I may not ask for you of Mr. Thornycroft. He would not deem my position justified it."
"I will wait for you, Robert."
Only by bending his head could he catch the low words. His cheek lay on hers; he strained her closer, if that were possible, to his beating heart.
"It may be for years!"
"Let it be years and years. I ask no better than to wait for you."
The stars shone out brighter in the sky; the fire in the room went quite down; and nothing more could be heard from those living in their new and pure dream, but snatches of the sweet refrain--
"My love, my love!"
[CHAPTER VIII.]
A Last Interview.
The week went on to its close. Mary Anne Thornycroft, following out her own will and pleasure, despising her brother Cyril's warning, asked Robert Hunter to prolong his visit. He yielded so far as to defer his departure to the Sunday evening. Originally it had been fixed for the Saturday morning: business required his presence in London. Swayed by her, and by his own inclination--by his own love, he yielded to the tempting seduction of staying two further days. Alas, alas!