Lucius went straight to the parlour, where Lucille was seated before a formidable pile of household linen—table-cloths in the last stage of attenuation, sheets worn threadbare, which she was darning with a sublime patience. She looked up as Lucius entered the room, and a faint flush lighted up the pale face at sight of her lover. Yet, despite her pleasure at his return, he saw that she had changed for the worse during his brief absence. The transient glow faded from her cheek, and left her paler than of old; the hand Lucius held in both his own was burning with a slow fever. ‘My dearest,’ he said anxiously, ‘has anything been amiss in my absence?’ ‘Was not your absence itself amiss?’ she asked, with the faintest possible smile. ‘I have been very dull and very sad without you; that is all.’ ‘And you have fretted yourself into a fever. O, Lucille, end all difficulties; make no impossible conditions, and let me take you away from this great lonely house very soon. I cannot give you the fair home we have talked about yet awhile—it may even be long before prosperity comes to us; but all that patience and courage can do to achieve fortune, I will do for your dear sake. I would not ask you to share debt or poverty, Lucille; I would not urge you to link your fate with mine if I did not see my way to a secure position, if I had not already the means of providing a decent home for my sweet young bride.’ ‘Do you think that the fear of poverty has ever influenced me? No, Lucius, you must know me better than that. But I will not let you burden yourself too soon with a wife. Believe me, I am more than content. I am very happy in my present life, for I see you nearly every day. And I would not leave my poor old grandfather in his declining years. Let us think of our marriage as something still a long way off—in that happy future which it is so sweet to talk and dream about. Only, Lucius,’ she went on in a faltering tone, and with a downward look in the eyes that were wont to meet his own so frankly, ‘you spoke just now of my having imposed too hard a condition upon you—you meant, of course, with regard to my father?’ ‘Yes, dear.’ ‘I have been thinking a great deal about this subject in your absence, and have come to see it in a new light. The condition was too difficult; forget that I ever imposed it. I am content to know no more of my father’s fate than I know already.’ ‘This change is very sudden, Lucille.’ ‘No, it is not sudden. I have had ample time for thought in these two long days. I had no right to ask so much of you. Let my father’s fate be what it may, neither you nor I could have power to alter it.’ It happened somewhat strangely that this release was not altogether welcome to Lucius. He had thought his mistress unreasonable before; he thought her capricious now.