“As you will some day,” rejoined the other, drawing nearer to her, “when you, in your turn, shall know the unspeakable sweetness of unquestioning faith—­of utter dependence upon him to whom you have given your heart.”

“Utter dependence!” echoed Rosa.  “That would mean utter wreck of heart, hope—­everything—­should the anchor give way.  It is a hazardous experiment, ma belle!”

The other looked down at her with simple fearlessness.

“‘For it was founded upon a rock!’” she repeated softly; yet the exultant ring of her accent vibrated upon the ear like a joyous challenge.

Rosa’s fretful movement was involuntary.

“Mine would drag in the sand at every turn of the tide, every rise of the wind, if I were to follow your advice, and say ‘yes’ to the pertinacious Alfred,” she said reproachfully.

“Don’t say advice, dear!” corrected the other.  “I only endeavored to convince you that there must be latent tenderness beneath your sufferance of Mr. Branch’s devotion; that if you really were averse to the thought of marrying him, you could not take pleasure in his society or enjoy the marks of his attachment which are apparent to you and to everybody else.”

“Can’t you understand,” said the beauty, petulantly, “that it is one thing to flirt with a man in public, and another to cherish his image in private?  There is no better touchstone of affection than the holiness and calm of an hour like this.  If Frederic were with you, the scene would be the fairer, the season more sacred for its association with thoughts of him and his love.  Whereas, my Alfred’s adoring platitudes would disgust me with the sunset, with the world, and with myself, for permitting him to haunt my presence and hang upon my smile—­foppish barnacle that he is!  If you knew how I despise myself sometimes!”

“Dear Rosa!  I shall never try again to persuade that you care for him as a woman should for the man god intended her to marry.  But why not act worthily of yourself—­justly to him, and reject him decidedly?”

“Because”—­her face shrewd and wilful as it had been sorrowful just now—­“I am by no means certain that I can do better than to marry him.  He is rich, good-looking (so people say!), well-born, gentlemanly, and pleasant of temper.  An imposing array of advantages, you see!  I might go further, and fare very much worse.  We shall not expect to pass our days in gazing at sunsets and walking in the moonlight, you know.  It is not every woman who can marry the man she loves best.  While the right to select and to woo is usurped by the masculine portion of the community, it must, perforce, be Hobson’s choice with an uncountable majority of feminines.  I should not complain.  The stall allotted to me by Hobson—­alias Fate—­might hold a worse-conditioned animal than my worshipping swain.”

“What a wicked rattle you are!” Mabel said, affecting to box her ears.  “I could not love you if I believed you to be in earnest.  As to your figure of the stabled steed—­this disapproving customer has the consolation that she need not accept him, unless she wishes to do so.  She has the invaluable privilege of saying ‘no’ as often and obstinately as she pleases.”