‘Till that little girl comes of age,’ he said, with an accent of irritation which alarmed Anne. She laid her soft hand upon his to calm him. ‘You like Rose well enough, Cosmo; you have been so kind to her, taking them everywhere. Don’t be angry, it is not her fault.’ ‘No, it is my fault,’ he said. ‘I am at the bottom of all the mischief. It is I who have spoiled your life. She has been talking to me, that child, and with the most perfect reason. She says how could I think of marrying Anne if I was so poor? She is quite right, my dearest: how could I think of marrying you, of throwing my shadow across your beautiful, bright, prosperous life?’ ‘For that matter,’ said Anne, with a soft laugh, ‘you did not, Cosmo--you only thought of loving me. You are like the father in the “Précieuses Ridicules,” do you remember, who so shocked everybody by coming brutally to marriage at once. _That_, after all, has not so much to do with it. Scores of people have to wait for years and years. In the meantime the _pays de tendre_ is very sweet; don’t you think so?’ she said, turning to him soft eyes which were swimming in a kind of dew of light, liquid brightness and happiness, like a glow of sunshine in them. What could Cosmo do or say? He protested that it was very sweet, but not enough. That nothing would be enough till he could carry her away to the home which should be hers and his, and where nobody would intermeddle. And Anne was as happy as if her lover, speaking so earnestly, had been transformed at once into the hero and sage, high embodiment of man in all the nobleness of which man is capable, which it was the first necessity of her happiness that he should be. CHAPTER XXVIII. HEATHCOTE’S CAREER.