And so, from this day forward everything with reference to that engagement, seemed to run on as smoothly towards its projected end as ever did the course of such "true love." Mr. de Burgh, however he might continue inwardly to disapprove, appeared to think he had done all that duty and conscience entitled him to attempt; and that he had no chance against love and trust, such as had been exhibited by the object on whom he had made his attack. Even with his wife, he forebore any direct discussion on the subject after this period, with the exception perhaps of the following short and pithy colloquy, which some time or other had occurred. "My dear Louis, I really hope you are beginning to think a little better of this affair." "Indeed! you are quite mistaken on that point." "At any rate, you have come to the determination that it is a most foolish, if not most dangerous and presumptuous act, ever to attempt to mar a match." "I have come to the determination that there is _one_ thing more foolish, dangerous, and presumptuous, namely, to _make_ one." "Oh, if you mean to apply that to me, you are quite at fault. You seem to give me all the credit of this business; I assure you it is more than I can lay claim to. I never saw a match which seemed more truly one of those said to be made in heaven. Why, years ago, at that fête at Morland before we married, I now perfectly remember Eugene telling me after it was over, that he had never met with a sweeter little girl than that Miss Seaham, whom he had good-naturedly taken under his charge, and the first night he met her here, after Mary's arrival, he hardly took his eyes off her all the evening; whilst Mary tells me she had never forgotten him since he was so kind to her at that _fête_. But even if it were not so, I cannot imagine why you should set your face so much against the marriage." "Really!" responded the husband, shrugging his shoulders. "No; any one else would think it a splendid match for Mary." "I have no doubt of that." "And, under her circumstances, so peculiarly desirable." "Oh! certainly--peculiarly so." "I really think (petulantly) you must be in love with Mary yourself." (A look of ineffable scorn was the sole response.) "That is to say, if you _could_ be in love with any one but yourself." CHAPTER XVII. The rose that all are praising Is not the rose for me; Too many eyes are gazing Upon the costly tree. But there's a rose in yonder glen That shuns the gaze of other men, For me its blossom raising-- Oh, that's the rose for me! HAYNES BAYLEY. And Mary--her love and trust had indeed stood full proof against the breath of warning and insinuation, which had passed over their strength and beauty as unavailingly as the breeze across the hardy floweret.