ometimes I hardly know myself what it is I
do want. But are we not very well as we are? I dare say, had we been
living together for the past three years, we should now dislike each
other as cordially as--as do Maud Darley and her husband."

"Impossible! Maud Darley is one person, you are quite another; while
I--well"--with a smile--"I honestly confess I fancy myself rather more
than poor Henry Darley."

"He certainly _is_ plain," says Cecil, pensively, "and--he
snores,--two great points against him, Yes, on consideration, you are
an improvement on Henry Darley." Then, with a sudden change of tone,
she says, "Does all this mean that you love me?"

"Yes I confess it, Cecil," answers he, gravely, earnestly. "I love you
as I never believed it possible I should love a woman. I am
twenty-nine, and--think me cold if you will--but up to this I never yet
saw the woman I wanted for my wife except you."

"Then you ought to consider yourself the happiest man alive, because
you have the thing you crave. As you reminded me just now, I am yours
until death us do part."

"Not all I crave, not the best part of you, your heart," replies he,
tenderly. "No man loving as I do, could be contented with a part."

"Oh, it is too absurd," says Cecil, with a little aggravating shake of
the head. "In love with your own wife in this prosaic nineteenth
century! It savors of the ridiculous. Such mistaken feeling has been
tabooed long ago. Conquer it; conquer it."

"Too late. Besides, I have no desire to conquer it. On the contrary, I
encourage it, in hope of some return. No, do not dishearten me. I know
what you are going to say; but at least you like me, Cecil?"

"Well, yes; but what of that? I like so many people."

"Then go a little further, and say you--love me."

"That would be going a _great_ deal further, because I love so
few."

"Never mind. Say 'Penthony, I love you.'"

He has placed his hands upon her shoulders, and is regarding her with
anxious fondness.

"Would you have me tell you an untruth?"

"I would have you say you love me."

"But supposing I cannot in honesty?"

"Try."

"Of course I can try. Words without meaning are easy things to say. But
then--a lie; that is a serious matter.

"It may cease to be a lie, once uttered."

"Well,--just to please you, then, and as an experiment--and---- You are
_sure_ you will not despise me for saying it?"

"No."

"Nor accuse me afterward of deceit?"

"Of course not."