“You would not have been a dependent, Lionel. My money would have been yours, just as my love was yours.”
“Still a woman’s view, my dearest,” said Lionel. “The noblest and the best, I at once admit. Only, the world would never have believed that I had not married you for your fortune.”
“You and I together, Lionel, could have afforded to set the world’s opinion at defiance.”
Lionel ended the argument with a kiss.
A fair, sweet English face was that which nestled so lovingly on Lionel’s shoulder. Edith West had large liquid dark brown eyes. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were nearly black, but the thick wavy masses of her hair had no shade deeper than that of chestnuts in autumn. The tints of the wild rose dwelt in her cheeks. About her there was a freshness, a sweetness, and a delicate grace, like that of a breezy morning in spring, when flowers are growing, and birds are singing, and all nature seems glad at heart.
“You are in mourning, Lionel,” said Edith, suddenly.
“Yes; I have just lost my uncle, Mr. St. George, of Park Newton.”
“I never remember to have heard you speak of him.”
“Probably not. I never even saw him, never had any communication with him whatever. Nevertheless, it is to him that I owe my fortune.”
“It has come to you unexpectedly?”