“I could not dishonour your family.”

“Do you not think me worthy of becoming your wife?”

“You are worthy of a crown, and it is I who am all unworthy of possessing such a wife.  You must know that I have nothing in the world except my fortune, and that may leave me to-morrow.  By myself I do not dread the reverses of fortune, but I should be wretched if, after linking your fate with mine, you were forced to undergo any privation.”

“I think—­I know not why—­that you can never be unfortunate, and that you cannot be happy without me.  Your love is not so ardent as mine; you have not so great a faith.”

“My angel, if my fate is weaker than yours, that is the result of cruel experience which makes me tremble for the future.  Affrighted love loses its strength but gains reason.”

“Cruel reason!  Must we, then, prepare to part?”

“We must indeed, dearest; it is a hard necessity, but my heart will still be thine.  I shall go away your fervent adorer, and if fortune favours me in England you will see me again next year.  I will buy an estate wherever you like, and it shall be yours on your wedding day, our children and literature will be our delights.”

“What a happy prospect!—­a golden vision indeed!  I would that I might fall asleep dreaming thus, and wake not till that blessed day, or wake only to die if it is not to be.  But what shall I do if you have left me with child?”

“Divine Hebe, you need not fear.  I have managed that.”

“Managed?  I did not think of that, but I see what you mean, and I am very much obliged to you.  Alas perhaps after all it would have been better if you had not taken any precautions, for surely you are not born for my misfortune, and you could never have abandoned the mother and the child.”

“You are right, sweetheart, and if before two months have elapsed you find any signs of pregnancy in spite of my precautions, you have only to write to me, and whatever my fortunes may be, I will give you my hand and legitimise our offspring.  You would certainly be marrying beneath your station, but you would not be the less happy for that, would you?”

“No, no! to bear your name, and to win your hand would be the crowning of all my hopes.  I should never repent of giving myself wholly to you.”

“You make me happy.”

“All of us love you, all say that you are happy, and that you deserve your happiness.  What praise is this!  You cannot tell how my heart beats when I hear you lauded when you are away.  When they say I love you, I answer that I adore you, and you know that I do not lie.”

It was with such dialogues that we passed away the interval between our amorous transports on the last five or six nights of my stay.  Her sister slept, or pretended to sleep.  When I left Clementine I went to bed and did not rise till late, and then I spent the whole day with her either in private or with the family.  It was a happy time.  How could I, as free as the air, a perfect master of my movements, of my own free will put my happiness away from me?  I cannot understand it now.