phlet, and
Helen had looked, though rather sleepy, kindly acquiescent; but the
memory of the past could do no more than stir a faint pity for the
present Franklin; she was wishing--and it seemed the most irresistible
longing of all her life--that Gerald Digby wanted to kiss her too. The
memory and the wish threw her thoughts into confusion, but she was still
able to maintain her calm, to smile at him and say, 'Certainly, let us
talk.'

'But not about politics and philanthropy to-day,' said Gerald, who
leaned his elbow on his knee and looked quietly yet intently at her; 'I
want to talk about ourselves, if I may.'

'Do let us talk about ourselves,' said Althea.

'Well, I don't believe that what I'm going to say will surprise you. I'm
sure you've seen how much I've come to care about you,' said Gerald.

Althea kept her eyes fixed calmly upon him; her self-command was great,
even in the midst of an overpowering hope.

'I know that we are real friends,' she returned, smiling.

Her calm, her cool, sweet smile, like the light in the shaded room, were
very pleasing to Gerald. 'Ah, yes, but that was only a step, you see,'
he smiled back. He did not let her guess his full confidence, he took
all the steps one after the other in their proper order. He couldn't
give her romance, but he could give her every grace, and her calm made
him feel, happily and securely, that grace would quite content her.

'You must see,' he went on, still with his eyes on hers, 'that it's more
than that. You must see that you are dearer than that.' And then he
brought out his simple question, 'Will you be my wife?'

Althea sat still and her mind whirled. Until then she had been
unprepared. Her own feeling, the feeling that she had refused for days
to look at, had been so strong that she had only known its strength and
its danger to her pride; she had had no time to wonder about Gerald's
feeling. And now, in its freedom, her feeling was so joyous that she
could know only its joy. She was dear to him. He asked her to marry him.
It seemed enough, more than enough, to make joy a permanent thing in her
life. She had not imagined it possible to marry a man who did not woo
and urge, who did not make her feel the ardour of his love. But, now,
breathlessly, she found that reality was quite different from her
imagination and yet so blissful that she could feel nothing wanting in
it. And she could say nothing. She looked at him with her large eyes,
gravely,