"Not at this moment, dear Edith. This affair must first be arranged between us. You do not mean to refuse me? Reflect a moment. I spoke to your father more than a week ago. It was the day before the death of poor Mr Torrance. Since then I have waited, hung up, don't you know, like Mahomet's coffin. When such a delay does occur, it is generally understood in one way. When a lady means to say No, it is only just to say it at once—not to permit a man to commit himself, and leave him, don't you know, hanging on."
"Dear Lord Millefleurs——"
"My name is Wilfrid," he said, with a little pathos; "no one ever calls me by it: in this country not even my mother—calls me by my name."
"In America," said Edith, boldly, "you were called so by—the other lady——"
He waved his hand. "By many people," he said; "but never mind. Never by any one here. Call me Wilfrid, and I shall feel happier——"
"I was going to say that if you had spoken to me, I should have told you at once," Edith said. "When you understand me quite, then we shall call each other anything you please. But that cannot be, Lord Millefleurs. Indeed you must understand me. I like you very much. I should be dreadfully sorry if I thought what I am saying would really hurt you—but it will not after the first minute. I think you ought to marry her——"
"Oh, there would be no hindrance there," said Millefleurs; "that was quite unsuitable. I don't suppose it could ever have been. But with you," he said, turning to take her hand again, "dear Edith! everything is as it should be—it pleases your people, and it will delight mine. They will all love you; and for my part, I am almost as fond of dear Lady Lindores as I am of you. Nothing could be more jolly (to use a vulgar word—for I hate slang) than the life we should lead. I should take you over there, don't you know, and show you everything, as far as San Francisco if you like. I know it all. And you would form my opinions, and make me good for something when we came back. Come! let it be settled so," said Millefleurs, laying his other hand on Edith's, and patting it softly. It was the gentlest fraternal affectionate clasp. The hands lay within each other without a thrill in them—the young man kind as any brother, the girl in nowise afraid.
"Do you think," said Edith, with a little solemnity, from which it cost her some trouble to keep out a laugh, "that if I could consent (which I cannot: it is impossible), do you think it would not be a surprise, and perhaps a painful one, to—the other lady—if she heard you were coming to America so?"
Lord Millefleurs raised his eyes for a moment to the ceiling, and he sighed. It was a tribute due to other days and other hopes. "I think not," he said. "She was very disinterested. Indeed she would not hear of it. She said she regarded me as a mother, don't you know? There is something very strange in these things," he added, quickly forgetting (as appeared) his position as lover, and putting Edith's hand unconsciously out of his. "There was not, you would have supposed, any chance of such feelings arising. And in point of fact it was not suitable at all. Still, had she not seen so very clearly what was my duty——"
"I know now," said Edith; "it was the lady who—advised you to come home."