“We will go to Paris.”
“Very well,” she replied.
Her calmness maddened him.
“Launa, darling, try to love me. I care for you so much; you are all the world to me. I love you—I love you!”
He took her in his arms, and it had all the appearance of a passionate, willing embrace. Paul was just going to open the window to come in. Launa did not see him—he turned round and walked away, and Mr. Wainbridge let her go.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “I hate it, loathe it, and if it were not for you and my pity—my pity, do you hear? I would . . . Sit there and talk rationally. I am a cold stone. I hate love-making, and you are going to be my husband. Have you forgotten the conversation you and I had at Victoria Mansions?”
He sat down by her, and did not answer her question. Instead, he told her all that Lord Wainbridge had said.
“Darling! my beloved! May I tell him it will be soon? Our marriage.”
“Soon?” she repeated drawing away her hand. . . . “I am so lonely, and you are no help. I wish I had someone to help me.”
“Let me.”