‘Yes; it has been a long time.’

’And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and knows nothing about society at all.’

’Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas.  Untravelled, socially unpractised, if you will,’ she said, smiling.  ’Well, I did sigh; but not because I regret being your promised one.  What I do sometimes regret is that the scheme, which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not been carried out completely.  You said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, you would go away and travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you, and study books and art, simultaneously with your study of men and manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should find that my father would by no means be indisposed to accept you as a son-in-law.  You said your reason for wishing to get my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest when you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to knowledge than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with anxiety as to how I should be when you came back.  I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly swore myself to you in consequence.  But instead of going to see the world you stay on and on here to see me.’

‘And you don’t want me to see you?’

’Yes—­no—­it is not that.  It is that I have latterly felt frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual presence.  It seems so wicked not to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whereas if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous.  The realities would not stare at one so.  You would be a pleasant dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully qualified to boldly claim me of my father.  There, I have been terribly frank, I know.’

He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathings now.  ’I did plan it as you state,’ he answered.  ’I did mean to go away the moment I had your promise.  But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three things.  I did not know what a lot of pain it would cost to tear myself from you.  And I did not know that my stingy uncle—­heaven forgive me calling him so!—­would so flatly refuse to advance me money for my purpose—­the scheme of travelling with a first-rate tutor costing a formidable sum o’ money.  You have no idea what it would cost!’

‘But I have said that I’ll find the money.’

‘Ah, there,’ he returned, ’you have hit a sore place.  To speak truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your money.’

‘But why?  Men continually use the money of the women they marry.’

’Yes; but not till afterwards.  No man would like to touch your money at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present circumstances.  That brings me to what I was going to propose.  But no—­upon the whole I will not propose it now.’