“Yes,” I said; “Julia is right.”

“My brother and I have been talking about the change this will make,” she resumed.  “He would not rob you of any consolation or of any future happiness; not for worlds.  He relinquishes all claim to or hope of Julia’s affection—­”

“That would be unjust to Julia,” I interrupted.  “She must not be sacrificed to me any longer.  I do not suppose I shall ever marry—­”

“You must marry, Martin,” she interrupted in her turn, and speaking emphatically; “you are altogether unfitted for a bachelor’s life.  It is all very well for Dr. John Senior, who has never known a woman’s companionship, and who can do without it.  But it is misery to you—­this cold, colorless life.  No.  Of all the men I ever knew, you are the least fitted for a single life.”

“Perhaps I am,” I admitted, as I recalled my longing for some sign of womanhood about our bachelor dwelling.

“I am certain of it,” she said.  “Now, but for our precipitation last night, you would have gone naturally to Julia for comfort.  So my brother sends word that he is going back to Guernsey to-night, leaving us in Hanover Street, where we are close to you.  We have said nothing to Julia yet.  She is crying over this sad news—­mourning for your sorrow.  You know that my brother has not spoken directly to Julia of his love; and now all that is in the past, and is to be as if it had never been, and we go on exactly as if we had not had that conversation yesterday.”

“But that cannot be,” I remonstrated.  “I cannot consent to Julia wasting her love and time upon me.  I assure you most solemnly I shall never marry my cousin now.”

“You love her?” said Johanna.

“Certainly,” I answered, “as my sister.”

“Better than any woman now living?” she pursued.

“Yes,” I replied.

“That is all Julia requires,” she continued; “so let us say no more at present, Martin.  Only understand that all idea of marriage between her and my brother is quite put away.  Don’t argue with me, don’t contradict me.  Come to see us as you would have done but for that unfortunate conversation last night.  All will come right by-and-by.”

“But Captain Carey—­” I began.

“There! not a word!” she interrupted imperatively.  “Tell me all about that wretch, Richard Foster.  How did you come across him?  Is he likely to die?  Is he any thing like Kate Daltrey?—­I will never call her Kate Dobree as long as the world lasts.  Come, Martin, tell me every thing about him.”

She sat with me most of the morning, talking with animated perseverance, and at last prevailed upon me to take her a walk in Hyde Park.  Her pertinacity did me good in spite of the irritation it caused me.  When her dinner-hour was at hand I felt bound to attend her to her house in Hanover Street; and I could not get away from her without first speaking to Julia.  Her face was very sorrowful, and her manner sympathetic.  We said only a few words to one another, but I went away with the impression that her heart was still with me.