“And you will never think ill of me?” she asked, in a faltering tone. “You will never be suspicious of me as you have been to-night? You cannot tell how all this upsets me. Perfect love surely demands perfect confidence. And our love is perfect—is it not?”
“It is,” I cried. “It is. Forgive me, dearest. Forgive me for my churlish conduct to-night. It is my fault—all my fault. I love you, and have every confidence in you.”
“But will your love last always?” she asked, with just a tinge of doubt in her voice.
“Yes, always,” I declared.
“No matter what may happen?” she asked.
“No matter what may happen.”
I kissed her fervently with warm words of passionate devotion upon my lips, and went forth into the rainy winter’s night with my suspicions swept away and with love renewed within me.
I had been foolish in my suspicions and apprehensions, and hated myself for it. Her sweet devotedness to me was sufficient proof of her honesty. I was not wealthy by any means, and I knew that if she chose she could, with her notable beauty, captivate a rich husband without much difficulty. Husbands are only unattainable by the blue-stocking, the flirt and the personally angular.
The rain pelted down in torrents as I walked to Kew Gardens Station, and as it generally happens to the unlucky doctor that calls are made upon him in the most inclement weather, I found, on returning to Harley Place, that Lady Langley, in Hill Street, had sent a message asking me to go round at once. I was therefore compelled to pay the visit, for her ladyship—a snappy old dowager—was a somewhat exacting patient of Sir Bernard’s.
She was a fussy old person who believed herself to be much worse than she really was, and it was, therefore, not until past one o’clock that I smoked my final pipe, drained my peg, and retired to bed, full of recollections of my well-beloved.