“I mean to marry her though. I swear to you, Montagu, that my heart is wrapped up in her. I thought all women alike until I met this one. Now I know better. She could have made a different man of me; sometimes I think she could even yet. I vow to you I would not now injure a hair of her head, but willy-nilly, in the end I shall marry the girl.”
“To ruin her life?”
“To save mine rather.”
“Do you think yourself able to change the whole course of your life for her?”
He mused. “Ah, Montagu! There your finger falls pat on the pulse of my doubt. My heart cries aye, my reason gives a negative.”
“Don’t worry overmuch about it,” I answered, railing at him. “She’ll never look at you, man. My grave will be an insurmountable barrier. She will idealize my memory, think me a martyr and herself a widowed maid.”
The shot scored. ’Twas plain he must have often thought of that himself.
“It may interest you to know that we are engaged to be married,” I added.
“Indeed! Let me congratulate you. When does the happy event occur, may I ask? Or is the day set?”
He had no need to put into words more clearly the irony of the fate that encompassed us.