'Do you'--he was going to say--'love any one else?' But it seemed

as if this question would be an insult to the pure serenity of

those eyes. 'Forgive me I have been too abrupt. I am punished.

Only let me hope. Give me the poor comfort of telling me you have

never seen any one whom you could----' Again a pause. He could

not end his sentence. Margaret reproached herself acutely as the

cause of his distress.

'Ah! if you had but never got this fancy into your head! It was

such a pleasure to think of you as a friend.' 'But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that some time you will

think of me as a lover? Not yet, I see--there is no hurry--but

some time----' She was silent for a minute or two, trying to

discover the truth as it was in her own heart, before replying;

then she said: 'I have never thought of--you, but as a friend. I like to think

of you so; but I am sure I could never think of you as anything

else. Pray, let us both forget that all this' ('disagreeable,'

she was going to say, but stopped short) 'conversation has taken

place.' He paused before he replied. Then, in his habitual coldness of

tone, he answered: 'Of course, as your feelings are so decided, and as this

conversation has been so evidently unpleasant to you, it had

better not be remembered. That is all very fine in theory, that

plan of forgetting whatever is painful, but it will be somewhat

difficult for me, at least, to carry it into execution.' 'You are vexed,' said she, sadly; 'yet how can I help it?' She looked so truly grieved as she said this, that he struggled

for a moment with his real disappointment, and then answered more

cheerfully, but still with a little hardness in his tone: 'You should make allowances for the mortification, not only of a

lover, Margaret, but of a man not given to romance in

general--prudent, worldly, as some people call me--who has been

carried out of his usual habits by the force of a passion--well,

we will say no more of that; but in the one outlet which he has

formed for the deeper and better feelings of his nature, he meets

with rejection and repulse. I shall have to console myself with

scorning my own folly. A struggling barrister to think of

matrimony!' Margaret could not answer this. The whole tone of it annoyed her.

It seemed to touch on and call out all the points of difference

which had often repelled her in him; while yet he was the

pleasantest man, the most sympathising friend, the person of all

others who understood her best in Harley Street. She felt a tinge

of contempt mingle itself with her pain at having refused him.

Her beautiful lip curled in a slight disdain. It was well that,

having made the round of the garden, they came suddenly upon Mr.

Hale, whose whereabouts had been quite forgotten by them. He had

not yet finished the pear, which he had delicately peeled in one

long strip of silver-paper thinness, and which he was enjoying in

a deliberate manner. It was like the story of the eastern king,

who dipped his head into a basin of water, at the magician's

command, and ere he instantly took it out went through the

experience of a lifetime. I Margaret felt stunned, and unable to

recover her self-possession enough to join in the trivial

conversation that ensued between her father and Mr. Lennox. She

was grave, and little disposed to speak; full of wonder when Mr.

Lennox would go, and allow her to relax into thought on the

events of the last quarter of an hour. He was almost as anxious

to take his departure as she was for him to leave; but a few

minutes light and careless talking, carried on at whatever

effort, was a sacrifice which he owed to his mortified vanity, or

his self-respect. He glanced from time to time at her sad and

pensive face.




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