Yet had he not already told her that he had no desire to probe the secret of her past—that he only desired her for herself, that her past was her own affair, and that his only concern was her future, because he loved her so? She recognised how good, how kind, how generous, and how every trait of his character was that of the high-born English gentleman. In secret she had long admired him, yet she had been careful not to betray an undue interest beyond that of his accident. In such circumstances a woman’s diplomacy is always marvellous. In the concealment of her true feelings, woman can always give many points to a man.
Bracondale was awaiting her answer. His eyes were fixed upon hers, though her gaze was averted. He held her in his arms, and again repeated his question in a low, intense voice, the voice of a man filled with the passion of true affection.
“Will you be mine, dearest?” he asked, a second time. “Will you trust in me and throw in your lot in life with mine?”
She shook her head.
“No, Lord Bracondale; such a marriage would, for you, be most injudicious. You must marry one of your own people.”
“Never!” he cried in desperation. “If I marry, it will be only your own dear self.”
“But think—think what the world will say.”
“Let the world say what it likes,” he laughed. “Remember my policy and my doings are criticised by the Opposition newspapers every day. But I have learned to disregard hard words. I am my own master in my private life as well as in my public life, and if you will only consent to be my wife I shall tackle the difficult European problems with renewed vigour, well knowing that I have at least one sympathiser and helpmate—my wife.”
He paused, and looked into her dark eyes for quite a long time.
Then, bending till his lips almost touched hers, and placing his arm tenderly about her waist, he asked breathlessly: