I longed to find out whether it was amiability that kept her happy in my company, or some more complimentary, some tenderer feeling. Somehow or other, I couldn’t make love to her as I had made love to Conny. Nothing had been easier than to mutter my eternal devotion into the ears of the golden-haired maid; nothing was harder than to pay Theresa even a compliment. It was not that she was cold; on the contrary, she was very genial. She gave me every reason to believe that my society pleased her; and throughout the long day, during which we were constantly together, never once suggested that she had had enough of me. The fault was mine, not hers. I was diffident. I was shy, bashful, muffish. Conny and other young ladies (who shall be nameless, for they may still be single) I had been able to make love to, as I have said, easily; but Theresa awed me. She was so honest, so open-hearted and candid, so womanly, so superior in numberless points to the girls whose friendship or whose hearts I had had the honour of possessing, that I could as soon have deliberately insulted her, as indulged in any of those light and jocose strokes of sentimentality with which I had been heretofore used to pay my court. One thing struck both of us that afternoon and made us laugh: she had stopped at Grove End to be a companion for my aunt. “I am sure she has enjoyed your society very much,” said I, ironically. And she blushed and averted her face with a self-conscious expression upon it that filled me with delight. However, I don’t think my aunt wanted her. The good lady was very gloomy, and quite impenetrable to the attacks of cheerfulness. When we entered the house, we caught her helping a servant to pack a hamper, which she boldly avowed was for her daughter; and the moment the servant left the room she exclaimed, “My daughter shan’t be starved by that man.” Here was prejudice! “Starved!” I cried; “why, poor fellow, he worships her.” “And so he ought. But all young men of his kind are intolerably selfish and never think of their wives’ necessities, so long as their own are supplied.” “Why his kind particularly?” asked Theresa, with a glance at me. “Because he is _not_ a gentleman,” answered my aunt. Nothing but time will cure this stubbornness, I thought, turning away. The young people were to be married “properly” on Monday morning, at nine o’clock. This early hour was fixed that the people at Updown might not get scent of the proceedings. Curling, in my presence, had protested against the ceremony, as superfluous. But my uncle was firm. “I shall never consider my daughter your wife, sir,” he exclaimed with some heat, “until the service as directed by the Church of England has been read over you.” “But we _are_ married!” urged Curling. “Thoroughly married.” “I say you are not!” shouted my uncle. “You dare not disobey me, sir!” “I’ll do anything you want,” replied Curling: “but I shall go to my grave protesting against this second ceremony.”