“That depends something upon who it was,” Victor exclaimed, as if this were the first intimation he had received of it.

“What would you say to Edith?” Richard continued, and Victor replied with well-feigned surprise, “Miss Hastings!  You would not ask that little girl to be your wife!  Why you are twenty-five years her senior.”

“No, no, Victor, only twenty-one,” and Richard’s voice trembled, for like Edith, he wished to be reassured and upheld even by his inferiors.

He knew Victor disapproved, that he considered it a great sacrifice on Edith’s part, but for this he had no intention of giving her up.  On the contrary it made him a very little vexed that his valet should presume to question his acts, and he said with more asperity of manner than was usual for him,

“You think it unsuitable, I perceive, and perhaps it is, but if we are satisfied, it is no one’s else business, I think,”

“Certainly not,” returned Victor, a meaning smile curling his lip, “if both are satisfied, I ought to be.  When is the wedding?”

He asked this last with an appearance of interest, and Richard, ever ready to forgive and forget, told him all about it, who Edith was, and sundry other matters, to which Victor listened as attentively as if he had not heard the whole before.  Like Edith, Richard was in the habit of talking to Victor more as if he were an equal than a servant and in speaking of his engagement, he said,

“I had many misgivings as to the propriety of asking Edith to be my wife—­she is so young, so different from me, but my excuse is that I cannot live without her.  She never loved another, and thus the chance is tenfold that she will yet be to me all that a younger, less dependent husband could desire.”

Victor bit his lip, half resolved one moment to undeceive poor Richard, whom he pitied for his blind infatuation, but remembering his promise, he held his peace, until his master signified that the conference was ended, when he hastened to the barn, where he could give vent to his feeling in French, his adopted language being far too prosy to suit his excited mood.  Suddenly Grace Atherton came into his mind, and Edith’s request that he should tell her.

“Yes, I’ll do it,” he said, starting at once for Brier Hill “’Twill be a relief to let another know it, and then I want to see her squirm, when she hears all hope for herself is gone.”

For once, however, Victor was mistaken.  Gradually the hope that she could ever be aught to Richard was dying out of Grace’s heart, and though, for an instant, she turned very white when, as if by accident, he told the news, it was more from surprise at Edith’s conduct than from any new feeling that she had lost him.  She was in the garden bending over a bed of daffodils, so he did not see her face, but he knew from her voice how astonished she was and rather wondered that she could question him so calmly as she did, asking if Edith were very happy, when the wedding was to be, and even wondering at Richard’s willingness to wait so long.