"Not they" (less indignantly).
"And if—if—after a long while—a very long while—I succeed in liking you a little—mind, I don't say that I shall; on the contrary, I think it far more probable that I shall not—but if I do, you won't expect me to marry you?"
He smiles, despite himself. "I can hardly promise that."
"I mean not for many years, till Jack is married, and I am quite, quite old—five-and-twenty or so?"
"It shall be as you wish."
"And if, as is most likely, I continue not to care about you, and am obliged to tell you so, you will not think the worse of me."
"No."
"You are certain?"
"Certain. Whatever you do, I shall love you to-day, and to-morrow, and always," says the young fellow, very solemnly; and his eyes go away past her, through the window, and up to the blue sky overhead, as if calling on the great pale vault to be witness between him and her.
As for her, her prosaic soul has wandered back to the mutton; she takes the opportunity of his eyes being averted to steal a glance at the clock. Apparently, however, he has eyes in the back of his head, for he says hastily, with rather a pained smile: "You are longing for me to go."