"You were quite right, Lord Millefleurs," cried Edith, nervously; "you have been so nice—you have been like another brother——"
"Thanks; but it was not quite in that way." Here Millefleurs put out his plump hand and took hers in a soft, loose clasp—a clasp which was affectionate but totally unimpassioned. He patted the hand with his fingers as he held it in an encouraging, friendly way. "That's very pleasant; but it doesn't do, don't you know? People would have said we were, one of us, trifling with the other. I told Lord Lindores that there was not one other girl in the world—that is, in this country—whom I ever could wish to marry but you. He was not displeased, and I have been waiting ever since to ask; don't you think we might marry, Lady Edith? I should like it if you would. I hope I have not been abrupt, or anything of that sort."
"Oh no!—you are always considerate, always kind," cried Edith; "but, dear Lord Millefleurs, listen to me,—I don't think it would do——"
"No?" he said, with rather a blank air, suddenly pausing in the soft pat of encouragement he was giving her upon the hand; but he did not drop the hand, nor did Edith take it from him. She had recovered her breath and her composure; her heart fluttered no more. The usual half laugh with which she was in the habit of talking to him came into her voice.
"No?" said Millefleurs. "But, indeed, I think it would do very nicely. We understand each other very well; we belong to the same milieu" (how pleased Lord Lindores would have been to hear this, and how amazed the Duke!), "and we are fond of each other. We are both young, and you are extremely pretty. Dear Edith—mayn't I call you so?—I think it would do admirably, delightfully!"
"Certainly you may call me so," she said, with a smile; "but on the old footing, not any new one. There is a difference between being fond of any one, and being—in love." Edith said this with a hot, sudden blush; then shaking her head as if to shake that other sentiment off, added, by way of reassuring herself, "don't you know?" with a tremulous laugh. Little Millefleurs's countenance grew more grave. He was not in love with any passion; still he did not like to be refused.
"Excuse me, but I can't laugh," he said, putting down her hand; "it is too serious. I do not see the difference, for my part. I have always thought that falling in love was a rather vulgar way of describing the matter. I think we have all that is wanted for a happy marriage. If you do not love me so much as I love you, there is no great harm in that; it will come in time. I feel sure that I should be a very good husband, and you——"
"Would not be a good wife—oh no, no!" cried Edith, with a little shudder, shrinking from him; then she turned towards him again with sudden compunction. "You must not suppose it is unkindness; but think,—two people who have been like brother—and sister."
"The only time," said Millefleurs, still more seriously, "that I ever stood in this position before, it was the relationship of mother and son that was suggested to me—with equal futility, if you will permit me to say so;—brother and sister means little. So many people think they feel so, till some moment undeceives them. I think I may safely say that my feelings have never—except, perhaps, at the very first—been those of a brother,—any more," he added in a parenthesis, "than they were ever those of a son."
What Edith said in reply was the most curious request ever made perhaps by a girl to the man who had just asked her to marry him. She laid her hand upon his arm, and said softly, "Tell me about her!" in a voice of mild coaxing, just tempered with laughter. Millefleurs shook his head, and relieved his plump bosom with a little sigh.