Do you consider me hard? Well, it is
because I know what this ends in. Miss Gascoigne does not see it, but I
do. She only thinks of 'propriety.' I think of something far deeper--a
girl's first notions about those sort of things. It is cruel to meddle with
them before their time--to take the bloom off the peach and the scent
off the rose; to put worldliness instead of innocence, and conceited
folly instead of simple, solemn, awful love. I would rather die, even
now--you will think I am always ready for dying--but I would rather
die than live to think and feel about love like some women--ay, and not
bad women either, whom I have known."
Mrs. Grey had gone on, hardly considering what she was saying or to
what it referred, till she was startled to feel fixed upon her her
husband's earnest eyes.
"You need not be afraid," said he smiling. "Christian, shall I tell you a
little secret? Do you know why I loved you? Because you are unlike
all other women--because you bring hack to me the dreams of my
youth. And here," suddenly rising, as if he feared he had said too
much, "we must put dreams aside, and arguments likewise, for Aunt
Henrietta will never forgive us if we are late at this terrible evening
party."
Chapter 8.
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