“Innocent, my dear,” he said, “I want you to think over this carefully. Should not you like to go into the world with me, to see everything that is to be seen; to go everywhere, and buy what you liked, and live where you pleased? I would do anything to please you. I would go with you everywhere to take care of you. Before you say no, think what it is you are refusing; and speak to your aunt, and let her advise you. She knows better than you do. I know better than you do,” he said, with a smile which indeed was a smile at himself, so odd and strange was his position. “I advise you to accept me, Innocent. Longueville is a beautiful place, much finer than anything you have seen in England; and we could go to Pisa if you liked.” “Ah, I should have liked it once--a year ago,” said Innocent; “but now it is best here. I don’t want to go away----” “Not to make me happy? Suppose you take that into consideration? to make a man who is fond of you happy.” She gazed at him with wondering eyes. She did not understand the language even which he was speaking. Had it been warm, youthful love, probably Innocent would have known what he meant. But this middle-aged fondness for the beautiful strange young creature, so strangely young, so unusual in her type of beauty, conveyed no idea to the mind which was but half alive. I don’t think she believed this last speech; it seemed to her, though she had a very limited perception of humour, that it must be a joke. “Innocent,” he cried, growing excited, and raising his voice, as if she had been deaf; “is it possible you do not understand me? I love you--is not that plain? I want to have you always with me, to have you for my wife. I want you to marry me. All girls marry; it is natural--it is necessary; and you say you like me. Shall I call your aunt, and tell her you have consented, and will be my wife?” “Oh, please no! please no!” cried Innocent, putting her hand on his arm in sudden fright. “If she said so, I would have to do it. Do not make me go away. I am not--clever. Don’t be angry or scold me. I am beginning to know a little better.” She put her hands together instinctively like a child. “It would be as dark again as when I came here; do not make me go away!” “Nobody will make you do anything; but I love you, Innocent. Come with me of your own will. Nobody will make you go away.” “Ah, thanks!” she cried, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. She did not seem to notice his other words--only the last, which relieved her. She put her clasped hands to her side, and looked at him with her dreamy smile. “I was frightened for a moment,” she said, “but I knew you were too kind. Feel how it made my heart beat. You are not angry? It was wrong not to care when I came here; but it cannot be wrong to wish to stay now? I could not bear to go away.”