Lewis Morgan laughed, and then immediately his brow clouded.
"But, Louise, there is a fitness in things, and you fit right in here. Everything matches with you." And his eyes gave a swift journey up and down the room, taking in its soft and harmonizing furnishings—the richness and glow of the carpet, the delicacy and grace of the lace curtains, the air of ease and elegance in the disposal of the elegant furniture, the rare paintings looking down on him from the walls, glowing in the gas-light, then back to the small, graceful figure in the brown chair.
"Louise, you are entirely unfamiliar, you know, with country life, and I don't believe I can give you the least idea of the sharp and trying contrasts."
"Then don't try. Wait, and let me see them for myself."
"Yes, but—what if we wait until it is too late to rectify mistakes? Though, for that matter, we can change, of course, should the thing prove unbearable. But I am really afraid it is a mistake. I seem to feel it more to-night than ever before."
"Lewis," said the little brown figure, "do you really think I am a bird of bright plumage, that must have a gilded cage and downy nest, and nothing else?"
He looked down on her with unutterable admiration in his eyes.
"Oh, you know very well," he said, half smiling, "that I think you are everything that any mortal woman can be—possibly a little more. But—well, it is not only the house and surroundings, though they are rude and plain enough. I am afraid that you and my mother will not understand each other. She is old-fashioned and peculiar—she is a good mother, and I love and respect her; but, Louise, she is not in the least like yours, and I am not sure that she will have an idea in common with you."
"Yes she will. We shall both bestow an undue amount of admiration on, and take an absurd degree of comfort in, your tall self."
He laughed again, and then shook his head.