‘If it _is_ ungentlemanlike, you must consider that there is no other means open to me. Have I not earned some kind of right to address you by the constancy of my worship, by the unalterable devotion which has made me follow you from town to town, patiently waiting for some happy hour like this, in which I should find myself face to face with you?’ ‘I do not know whether I ought to feel grateful for what you call your devotion,’ she said coldly; ‘but I can only say that I consider it very disagreeable to be followed from town to town in the manner you speak of, and that I shall be extremely obliged if you will discontinue your most useless pursuit.’ ‘Must it be always useless? Is there no hope for me? My letters have told you who and what I am, and what I have dared to hope.’ ‘Your letters?’ ‘Yes; you have received them, have you not?’ ‘I have received some very foolish letters. Are you the writer?’ ‘Yes; I am Geoffrey Hossack.’ ‘And you go about the world, Mr. Hossack, asking ladies of whom you know nothing whatever to marry you,’ she replied, looking him full in the face, with a penetrating look in the full clear gray eyes—eyes which reminded him curiously of other eyes, yet he knew not whose. ‘Upon my honour, madam,’ he answered gravely, and with an earnest warmth that attested his sincerity, ‘you are the first and the only woman I ever asked to be my wife.’ That truthful tone, those candid eyes boldly meeting her gaze, may have touched her. A faint crimson flushed her cheek, and her eyelids drooped. It was the first sign of emotion he had seen in her face. ‘If that be true, I can only acknowledge the honour of your preference, and regret that you have wasted so much devotion upon one who can never be anything more than a stranger to you.’ Geoffrey shot a swift glance after the child before opening the floodgates of his passion. Blessed innocent, she had strayed off to a distant patch of sunlit verdure carpeted with wild hyacinths—‘the heavens upbreaking through the earth.’ ‘Never?’ he echoed; ‘never more than a stranger? Is it wise to make so light of an honest passion—a love that is strong to suffer or to dare? Put me to the test, Mrs. Bertram. I don’t ask you to trust me or believe in me all at once. God knows I will be patient. Only look me in the face and say, “Geoffrey Hossack, you may hope,” and I will abide your will for all the rest. I will follow you with a spaniel’s fidelity, worship you with the blind idolatry of an Indian fakir; will do for you what I should never dream of doing for myself—strive to win reputation and position. Fortune has been won for me.’ ‘Were you the Lord Chancellor,’ she said, with a slow sad smile, ‘it would make no difference. You and I can never be more than strangers, Mr. Hossack. I am sorry for your foolish infatuation, just as I should pity a spoiled child who cried for the moon. But that young moon sailing cold and dim in the sky yonder is as near to you as I can ever be.’