Sibella, woman-like, looked unconscious of any reticence on my part on the subject, but I felt that she suspected it. Well, she had been made aware of Miss Gascoyne’s existence in as tactful a manner as possible.
“What would you do if I were to marry, Sibella?” This was a question I was very fond of asking her.
“I don’t know; it all depends on whom you married, and whether you married for love, or——”
“Or interest, you mean. I could not do the former very well, as I am in love with you, but you must admit it would be foolish not to do the latter.”
“I suppose there is something in marrying for love,” said Sibella, a little gloomily.
“In the poorer classes I should think it meant everything. In the case of the well-to-do it is nothing like so important.”
“I thought I was in love with Lionel.”
“Yes, Sibella, to do you justice I believe you did.”
“And when I discovered that I was not it was too late to draw back.”
Like all people in love we derived a never-ending pleasure from going backwards and forwards over the whole psychological battle-ground of our romance.