“O, surely you will wait a twelvemonth, at least.  You have known Marian Nowell such a short time.  You ought to put her to the test in some manner before you make her your wife.”

“I have no occasion to put her to any kind of test.  I have a most profound and perfect belief in her goodness.”

“Why, Gilbert, this is utter infatuation—­about a girl whom you have only known a little more than three weeks!”

It does seem difficult for a matter-of-fact, reasonable matron, whose romantic experiences are things of the remote past, to understand this sudden trust in, and all-absorbing love for, an acquaintance of a brief summer holiday.  But Gilbert Fenton believed implicitly in his own instinct, and was not to be shaken.

He went back to town by the afternoon express that day, for he dared not delay his return any longer.  He went back regretfully enough to the dryasdust business life, after spending the greater part of the morning under the walnut-trees in Captain Sedgewick’s garden, playing with Fritz the Skye terrier, and talking airy nonsense to Marian, while she sat in a garden-chair hemming silk handkerchiefs for her uncle, and looking distractingly pretty in a print morning dress with tiny pink rosebuds on a white ground, and a knot of pink ribbon fastening the dainty collar.  He ventured to talk a little about the future too; painting, with all the enthusiasm of Claude Melnotte, and a great deal more sincerity, the home which he meant to create for her.

“You will have to come to town to choose our house, you know, Marian,” he said, after a glowing description of such a villa as never yet existed, except in the florid imagination of an auctioneer; “I could never venture upon such an important step without you:  apart from all sentimental considerations, a woman’s judgment is indispensable in these matters.  The house might be perfection in every other point, and there might be no boiler, or no butler’s pantry, or no cupboard for brooms on the landing, or some irremediable omission of that kind.  Yes, Marian, your uncle must bring you to town for a week or so of house-hunting, and soon.”

She looked at him with a startled expression.

“Soon!” she repeated.

“Yes, dear, very soon.  There is nothing in the world to hinder our marriage.  Why should we delay longer than to make all necessary arrangements?  I long so for my new home, Marian, I have never had a home in my life since I was a boy.”

“O Mr. Fenton—­Gilbert,”—­she pronounced his Christian name shyly, and in obedience to his reproachful look,—­“remember how short a time we have known each other.  It is much too soon to talk or think of marriage yet.  I want you to have plenty of leisure to consider whether you really care for me, whether it isn’t only a fancy that will die out when you go back to London.  And we ought to have time to know each other very well, Gilbert, to be quite sure we are suited to one another.”