“Oh, yes,—yes, I know it,” she said; “I never doubted it!” Staniford stood bemazed, though he knew enough to take the hands she yielded him; but she suddenly caught them away again, and set them against his breast. “I was very wrong to suspect you ever; I'm sorry I did; but there's something else. I don't know how to say what I want to say. But it must be said.”
“Is it something disagreeable?” asked Staniford, lightly.
“It's right,” answered Lydia, unsmilingly.
“Oh, well, don't say it!” he pleaded; “or don't say it now,—not till you've forgiven me for the anxiety I've caused you; not till you've praised me for trying to do what I thought the right thing. You can't imagine how hard it was for one who hasn't the habit!”
“I do praise you for it. There's nothing to forgive you; but I can't let you care for me unless I know—unless”—She stopped, and then, “Mr. Staniford,” she began firmly, “since I came here, I've been learning things that I didn't know before. They have changed the whole world to me, and it can never be the same again.”
“I'm sorry for that; but if they haven't changed you, the world may go.”
“No, not if we're to live in it,” answered the girl, with the soberer wisdom women keep at such times. “It will have to be known how we met. What will people say? They will laugh.”
“I don't think they will in my presence,” said Staniford, with swelling nostrils. “They may use their pleasure elsewhere.”
“And I shouldn't care for their laughing, either,” said Lydia. “But oh, why did you come?”
“Why did I come?”