Holding her thus, he led her to the sofa with a certain look of purpose in his face, of loving proprietorship in his bearing, that made poor fond Josephine’s foolish heart knock loudly against her ribs.

Was it then coming at last, that reward of constancy for which she had borne so much suspense, so many delays, such long dull days and tearful nights?  Was the rickety idol of her whole life’s worship really about to bless her with his smiles?

She cast down her eyes, trembling, blushing.  She was thirty-five years of age, but she was only a great girl still, and her love had the freshness which belongs to the cherished sentiment of girlhood ripened into the confessed, patient, unchanging love of maturity.

“You have been always good to me, Josephine,” began Mr. Dundas, still holding her hand.

Josephine did not answer, save through the crimson of her telltale cheeks and the smile akin to tears about her quivering mouth.

“I think you have always liked me,” he went on to say, looking down into her face.

Josephine closed her hand over his more warmly and glanced up swiftly, bashfully.  Was there much doubt of it? had there ever been any doubt of it?

“And I have always liked you,” he added; and then he paused.

She looked up again, this time a certain tender reproach and surprise lying behind her evident delight and love.

“Had not my darling Virginie come between us you would have been my wife long ago,” said Mr. Dundas, the certainty of her acceptance at any time of their acquaintance as positive to him as that the famished hound would accept food, the closed pimpernel expand in the sunlight.  “I was always fond of you, even in poor Pepita’s time, though of course, as a man of honor, I could neither encourage nor show my affection.  But Virginie—­she took me away from the whole world, and I lost you, as well as herself, for that one brief month of happiness.”

His eyes filled up with tears.  Though he was wooing his third bride, he did not conceal his regret for his second.

By an effort of maidenly reserve over feminine sympathy Josephine refrained from throwing her arms round his neck and weeping on his shoulder for pity at his past sorrow.  She had none of the vice of jealousy, and she could honestly and tenderly pity the man whom she loved for his grief at the loss of the woman whom he had preferred to herself.  She did, however, refrain, and Sebastian could only guess at her impulse.  But he made a tolerably accurate guess, though he seemed to see nothing.  He knew that his way was smooth before him, and that he need not give himself a moment’s trouble about the ending.  And though, as a rule, a man likes the excitement of doubt and the sentiment of difficulties to be overcome, still there are times when, if he is either very weary or too self-complacent to care to strive, he is glad to be assured that he has won before he has wooed, and has only to claim the love that is waiting for him.  Which was what Mr. Dundas felt now when he noted the simplicity with which Josephine showed her heart while believing she was hiding it so absolutely, and knew that he had only to speak to have the whole thing concluded.