Mrs. Dearman trembled, flushed and paled.
"What do you mean?" she managed to say, with a fine affectation of coolness, unconcern, and indifference.
"I mean what I say," was the answer. "I want you. I cannot live without you. I want to take care of you. I want to devote my life to making you happy. I want to make you forget this terrible experience and tragedy. You are lonely and I worship you. I want you to marry me—when you can—later—and let me serve you for the rest of my life. Make me the happiest and proudest man in the world and I will strive to be the noblest."
He was very English then—in his fine passion. He took her hand and it was not withdrawn. He bent to look in her eyes, she smiled, and in a second was in his embrace, strained to his breast, her lips crushed by his.
For a minute he could not speak.
"I cannot believe it," he whispered at length. "Is this a dream?"
"You are a very concrete dream—dear," said Mrs. Dearman, re-arranging crushed and disarranged flowers at her breast, blushing and laughing shyly.
The man was filled with awe, reverence and a deep longing for worthiness.
The woman felt happy in the sense of safety, of power, of pride in the love of so fine a being.
"And how long have you loved me?" she murmured.