'I do wish it; and—and—until then I must ask you to excuse my not coming down quite so regularly. So much to arrange, you know,' he hastily continued, 'in case we should take it into our heads to remain abroad some time.'
'Yes; very well,' I murmured, as one in a dream. It was all so different—so terribly different from anything I had expected.
But I soon persuaded myself that the fault, if fault there were, must be mine. How could he be changed—or if he were, why should he so eagerly urge me to delay our marriage no longer?
As if to rebuke my doubt, he turned towards me and gently said: 'God grant that I may be worthy of you, Mary! You are a good woman. I must hope in time to be more worthy of you.'
I was conscious that just then I could have better borne a loving jest at my imperfections than this little set speech of praise. I never before cared so little about being a 'good woman' as I did at that moment. But I told myself that I would not be critical—how horribly critical I seemed to be growing! So I looked up into his face with a smile, as I said something about his being perfect enough for me.
'You are good.'
'Oh, please do not say anything more about my goodness!'
There was another pause; and then he said: 'I think you mentioned that you wished it to be a quiet affair, Mary, and at the little church in the vale—St John's, isn't it called?'
'Yes, Philip.'
'And you must let me know what I ought to do besides procuring the ring and license. I am sure you will give me credit for wishing not to be remiss in any way, and will not mind giving me a hint if I appear likely to fall short in any of the—proper observances.'