‘Yes; I have thought about it.’

‘Well, dearest?’

‘I suppose it had better be so,’ said she, standing up and withdrawing her hand.

She had accepted him; and now it was no longer possible for him to go back to Basle except as a betrothed man.  She had accepted him; but there came upon him a wretched feeling that none of the triumph of successful love had come to him.  He was almost disappointed,—­or if not disappointed, was at any rate embarrassed.  But it was necessary that he should immediately conduct himself as an engaged man.  ‘And you will love me, Marie?’ he said, as he again took her by the hand.

‘I will do my best,’ she said.

Then he put his arm round her waist and kissed her, and she did not turn away her face from him.  ’I will do my best also to make you happy,’ he said.

‘I am sure you will.  I believe you.  I know that you are good.’  There was another pause during which he stood, still embracing her.  ‘I may go now; may I not?’ she said.

‘You have not kissed me yet, Marie?’ Then she kissed him; but the touch of her lips was cold, and he felt that there was no love in them.  He knew, though he could hardly define the knowledge to himself, that she had accepted him in obedience to her uncle.  He was almost angry, but being cautious and even-tempered by nature he repressed the feeling.  He knew that he must take her now, and that he had better make the best of it.  She would, he was sure, be a good wife, and the love would probably come in time.

‘We shall be together this evening; shall we not?’ he asked.

‘O, yes,’ said Marie, ‘if you please.’  It was, as she knew, only reasonable now that they should be together.  Then he let her go, and she walked off to her room.

CHAPTER IX.

‘I suppose it had better be so,’ Marie Bromar had said to her lover, when in set form he made his proposition.  She had thought very much about it, and had come exactly to that state of mind.  She did suppose that it had better be so.  She knew that she did not love the man.  She knew also that she loved another man.  She did not even think that she should ever learn to love Adrian Urmand.  She had neither ambition in the matter, nor even any feeling of prudence as regarded herself.  She was enticed by no desire of position, or love of money.  In respect to all her own feelings about herself she would sooner have remained at the Lion d’Or, and have waited upon the guests day after day, and month after month.  But yet she had supposed ‘that it had better be so.’  Her uncle wished it,—­wished it so strongly that she believed it would be impossible that she could remain an inmate in his house, unless she acceded to his wishes.  Her aunt manifestly thought that it was her duty to accept the man, and could not understand how so manifest a duty, going hand in hand as it did with so great an advantage, should be made a matter of doubt.  She had not one about her to counsel her to hold by her own feelings.  It was the practice of the world around her that girls in such matters should do as they were bidden.  And then, stronger than all, there was the indifference to her of the man she loved!