d to add a touch of endearment, and he used it advisedly.
"Anstice, will you let me make you my wife?"

She said nothing, but threw her arms about his neck, and raised her face
a little for the first time. It was an assent that would have contented
any man, and to Lord Blandamer it came as a matter of course; he had
never for a moment doubted her acceptance of his offer. If she had
raised her face to be kissed, her expectation was gratified; he kissed
her indeed, but only lightly on the brow, as actor may kiss actress on
the stage. If anyone had been there to see, they would have known from
his eyes that his thoughts were far from his body, that they were busied
with somebody or something, that seemed to him of more importance than
the particular action in which he was now engaged. But Anastasia saw
nothing; she only knew that he had asked her to marry him, and that she
was in his arms.

He waited a moment, as if wondering how long the present position would
continue, and what was the next step to take; but the girl was the first
to relieve the tension. The wildest intoxication of the first surprise
was passing off, and with returning capacity for reflection a doubt had
arisen that flung a shadow like a cloud upon her joy. She disengaged
herself from his arms that strove in orthodox manner to retain her.

"Don't," she said--"don't. We have been too rash. I know what you have
asked me. I shall remember it always, and love you for it to my dying
day, but it cannot be. There are things you must know before you ask
me. I do not think you would ask me if you knew all."

For the first time he seemed a little more in earnest, a little more
like a man living life, a little less like a man rehearsing a part that
he had got by heart. This was an unexpected piece of action, an episode
that was not in his acting edition, that put him for the moment at a
loss; though he knew it could not in any way affect the main issues of
the play. He expostulated, he tried to take her hand again.

"Tell me what it is, child, that is troubling you," he said; "there can
be nothing, nothing under heaven that could make me wish to unsay what I
have said, nothing that could make us wish to undo what we have done.
Nothing can rob me now of the knowledge that you love me. Tell me what
it is."

"I cannot tell you," she answered him. "It is something I cannot tell;
don't ask me. I will write it. Leave me now--please leave me; no one