she was almost shaken!  When she thought only of herself, she would almost task herself to believe that after all it did not much matter what of happiness or of unhappiness might befall her.  If she allowed herself to be taken to a new home at Basle she could still work and eat and drink,—­and working, eating, and drinking she could wait till her unhappiness should be removed.  She was sufficiently wise to understand that as she became a middle-aged woman, with perhaps children around her, her sorrow would melt into a soft regret which would be at least endurable.  And what did it signify after all how much one such a being as herself might suffer?  The world would go on in the same way, and her small troubles would be of but little significance.  Work would save her from utter despondence.  But when she thought of George, and the words in which he had expressed the constancy of his own love, and the shipwreck which would fall upon him if she were untrue to him,—­then again she would become strong in her determination.  Her uncle had threatened her with his lasting displeasure.  He had said that it would be impossible that he should forgive her.  That would be unbearable!  Yet, when she thought of George, she told herself that it must be borne.

Before the hour of supper came, her aunt had been with her, and she had promised to see her suitor alone.  There had been some doubt on this point between Michel and his wife, Madame Voss thinking that either she or her husband ought to be present.  But Michel had prevailed.  ‘I don’t care what any people may say,’ he replied.  ’I know my own girl;—­and I know also what he has a right to expect.’  So it was settled, and Marie understood that Adrian was to come to her in the little brightly furnished sitting-room upstairs.  On this occasion she took no notice of the hotel supper at all.  It is to be hoped that Peter Veque proved himself equal to the occasion.

At about nine she was seated in the appointed place, and Madame Voss brought her lover up into the room.

‘Here is M. Urmand come to speak to you,’ she said.  ’Your uncle thinks that you had better see him alone.  I am sure you will bear in mind what it is that he and I wish.’  Then she closed the door, and Adrian and Marie were left together.

‘I need hardly tell you,’ said he, ’what were my feelings when your uncle came to me yesterday morning.  And when I opened your letter and read it, I could hardly believe that it had come from you.’

‘Yes, M. Urmand;—­it did come from me.’

’And why—­what have I done?  The last word you had spoken to me was to declare that you would be my loving wife.’

’Not that, M. Urmand; never that.  When I thought it was to be so, I told you that I would do my best to do my duty by you.’

‘Say that once more, and all shall be right.’

’But I never promised that I would love you.  I could not promise that; and I was very wicked to allow them to give you my troth.  You can’t think worse of me than I think of myself.’