o many people at once."

"You are making her out to be a paragon of perfection, Mr.
Greystock."

"And when you add to all the rest that she has four thousand a year,
you must admit that Lord Fawn is a lucky man."

"I have said nothing against it."

"Four thousand a year is a very great consideration, Lucy." Lucy for
a while said nothing. She was making up her mind that she would say
nothing;--that she would make no reply indicative of any feeling on
her part. But she was not sufficiently strong to keep her resolution.
"I wonder, Mr. Greystock," she said, "that you did not attempt to win
the great prize yourself. Cousins do marry."

He had thought of attempting it, and at this moment he would not lie
to her. "The cousinship had nothing to do with it," he said.

"Perhaps you did think of it."

"I did, Lucy. Yes, I did. Thank God, I only thought of it." She
could not refrain herself from looking up into his face and clasping
her hands together. A woman never so dearly loves a man as when he
confesses that he has been on the brink of a great crime,--but has
refrained, and has not committed it. "I did think of it. I am not
telling you that she would have taken me. I have no reason whatever
for thinking so."

"I am sure she would," said Lucy, who did not in the least know what
words she was uttering.

"It would have been simply for her money,--her money and her beauty.
It would not have been because I love her."

"Never--never ask a girl to marry you, unless you love her, Mr.
Greystock."

"Then there is only one that I can ever ask," said he. There was
nothing of course that she could say to this. If he did not choose
to go further, she was not bound to understand him. But would he go
further? She felt at the moment that an open declaration of his love
to herself would make her happy for ever, even though it should be
accompanied by an assurance that he could not marry her. If they only
knew each other,--that it was so between them,--that, she thought,
would be enough for her. And as for him--if a woman could bear such a
position, surely he might bear it. "Do you know who that one is?" he
asked.

"No," she said,--shaking her head.

"Lucy, is that true?"

"What does it matter?"

"Lucy;--look at me, Lucy," and he put his hand upon her arm.

"No,--no,--no!" she said.

"I love you so well, Lucy, that I never can love another. I have
thought of many women, but could never even think of one, as a woman
to l