“Yes, my love, he was most anxious that I should not be inconvenienced; but our repast is ready. Come,” and she motioned him to the place opposite her, and with happy dignity went to the head of the table. “I hope you will do it justice.” Mr. Wimple ate his dinner with much solemnity. He always accepted his food as if it was a responsibility that demanded his most serious attention. Presently he looked at her across the dinner-table, at the lace about her throat, at the little crinkly gold brooch, which Florence had seen first years before at Rottingdean, at the lines and wrinkles that marked the tender old face, at the thin white hands with the loose skin and the blue veins; but no expression came into his dull full eyes. When the meal was over he got up and stood by the fireplace. “My dear one,” she said, “are you tired with the journey?” “No.” “Did you find your rooms quite comfortable and ready for you?” she asked, and went over to his side. “Yes,” he answered with the little gulp peculiar to him. He seemed to be considering something of which he was uncertain whether to speak or be silent. But he kept his eyes fixed full upon her. “Are they in the Gray’s Inn Road, dear Alfred?” “Near there,” he said, and his lips closed. For a minute he was silent. Her eyes dropped beneath his gaze, she seemed to be trembling, and fragile—oh, so fragile, a little gust of wind might have swept the slight thin form away. He opened his lips to speak, but no sound came from them. “You are so thoughtful,” she asked gently; “I have not vexed you?” “No;” and there was a long pause. Then he spoke again. “Anne,” he said, and went a little further from her, “I think perhaps it would be as well if we were married at once.” The tears came into her eyes, her mouth twitched, there was a pause before she found words to speak. “My dear one,” she said, “is it really true that all your heart is mine; you are sure, dear Alfred?” “Yes,” he answered, in a voice he tried to make gentle, but that, oddly enough, sounded half defiant, “I told you so last night.” “I know,” she answered; “only I have not deserved such happiness,” and the tears stole down her cheeks. “I have lived so long alone, my dear one; but all my life is yours, Alfred, all my life, and the truest love that woman can give I will give you,” and she clasped her hands while she spoke—she seemed to be making the promise before some unseen witness to whom she owed account of all her doings. * * * * *