“Dear Stella!”

“No, not again!  I am speaking seriously now.  Mr. Penrose looked at me with a strange kind of interest—­I can’t describe it.  Have you taken him into our confidence?”

“He is so devoted—­he has such a true interest in me,” said Romayne—­“I really felt ashamed to treat him like a stranger.  On our journey to London I did own that it was your charming letter which had decided me on returning.  I did say, ’I must tell her myself how well she has understood me, and how deeply I feel her kindness.’  Penrose took my hand, in his gentle, considerate way.  ‘I understand you, too,’ he said—­and that was all that passed between us.”

“Nothing more, since that time?”

“Nothing.”

“Not a word of what we said to each other when we were alone last week in the picture gallery?”

“Not a word.  I am self-tormentor enough to distrust myself, even now.  God knows I have concealed nothing from you; and yet—­Am I not selfishly thinking of my own happiness, Stella, when I ought to be thinking only of you?  You know, my angel, with what a life you must associate yourself if you marry me.  Are you really sure that you have love enough and courage enough to be my wife?”

She rested her head caressingly on his shoulder, and looked up at him with her charming smile.

“How many times must I say it,” she asked, “before you will believe me?  Once more—­I have love enough and courage enough to be your wife; and I knew it, Lewis, the first time I saw you!  Will that confession satisfy your scruples?  And will you promise never again to doubt yourself or me?”

Romayne promised, and sealed the promise—­unresisted this time—­with a kiss.  “When are we to be married?” he whispered.

She lifted her head from his shoulder with a sigh.  “If I am to answer you honestly,” she replied, “I must speak of my mother, before I speak of myself.”

Romayne submitted to the duties of his new position, as well as he understood them.  “Do you mean that you have told your mother of our engagement?” he said.  “In that case, is it my duty or yours—­I am very ignorant in these matters—­to consult her wishes?  My own idea is, that I ought to ask her if she approves of me as her son-in-law, and that you might then speak to her of the marriage.”

Stella thought of Romayne’s tastes, all in favor of modest retirement, and of her mother’s tastes, all in favor of ostentation and display.  She frankly owned the result produced in her own mind.  “I am afraid to consult my mother about our marriage,” she said.

Romayne looked astonished.  “Do you think Mrs. Eyrecourt will disapprove of it?” he asked.

Stella was equally astonished on her side.  “Disapprove of it?” she repeated.  “I know for certain that my mother will be delighted.”

“Then where is the difficulty?”