"Are you tired of Ramsgate already?" I asked.
He came back to me, and took my hand—my cold insensible hand that won't feel his touch as it ought!
"Let me be your husband, Lucilla," he whispered; "and I will live at Ramsgate if you like—for your sake."
Although there was everything to please me in those words, there was something that startled me—I cannot describe it—in his look and manner when he said them. I made no answer at the moment. He went on.
"Why should we not be married at once?" he asked. "We are both of age. We have only ourselves to think of."
[Note.—Alter his words as follows: "Why should we not be married before Madame Pratolungo can hear of my arrival at Ramsgate?"—and you will rightly interpret his motives. The situation is now fast reaching its climax of peril. Nugent's one chance is to persuade Lucilla to marry him before any discoveries can reach my ears, and before Grosse considers her sufficiently recovered to leave Ramsgate.—P.]
"You forget," I answered, more surprised than ever; "we have my father to think of. It was always arranged that he was to marry us at Dimchurch."
Oscar smiled—not at all the charming smile I used to imagine, when I was blind!
"We shall wait a long time, I am afraid," he said, "if we wait until your father marries us."
"What do you mean?" I asked.