"There is nothing like going to see," he suggested. He helped her up, giving her his hand from one course of seats to another. When they reached the point which commanded the best view of the whole, she sat down, and he sank at her feet, but they did not speak of the view. "Theodore, I want to tell you something," she said abruptly. "I have heard from home." "Yes?" he replied, in a tone in which he did his best to express a readiness for any fate. "Mother has telegraphed. She is coming out. She is on her way now. She will be here very soon." Colville did not know exactly what to say to these passionately consecutive statements. "Well?" he said at last. "Well"--she repeated his word--"what do you intend to do?" "Intend to do in what event?" he asked, lifting his eyes for the first time to the eyes which he felt burning down upon him. "If she should refuse?" Again he could not command an instant answer, but when it came it was a fair one. "It isn't for me to say what I shall do," he replied gravely. "Or, if it is, I can only say that I will do whatever you wish." "Do _you_ wish nothing?" "Nothing but your happiness." "Nothing but my happiness!" she retorted. "What is my happiness to me? Have I ever sought it?" "I can't say," he answered; "but if I did not think you would find it--" "I shall find it, if ever I find it, in yours," she interrupted. "And what shall you do if my mother will not consent to our engagement?" The experienced and sophisticated man--for that in no ill way was what Colville was--felt himself on trial for his honour and his manhood by this simple girl, this child. He could not endure to fall short of her ideal of him at that moment, no matter what error or calamity the fulfilment involved. "If you feel sure that you love me, Imogene, it will make no difference to me what your mother says. I would be glad of her consent; I should hate to go counter to her will; but I know that I am good enough man to be true and keep you all my life the first in all my thoughts, and that's enough for me. But if you have any fear, any doubt of yourself, now is the time--" Imogene rose to her feet as in some turmoil of thought or emotion that would not suffer her to remain quiet. "Oh, keep still!" "Don't get up yet!" "Hold on a minute, please!" came from the artists in different parts of the theatre, and half a dozen imploring pencils were waved in the air. "They are sketching you," said Colville, and she sank compliantly into her seat again. "I have no doubt for myself--no," she said, as if there had been no interruption. "Then we need have no anxiety in meeting your mother," said Colville, with a light sigh, after a moment's pause. "What makes you think she will be unfavourable?" "I don't think that; but I thought--I didn't know but--" "What?" "Nothing, now." Her lips were quivering; he could see her struggle for self-control, but he could not see it unmoved. "Poor child!" he said, putting out his hand toward her.