"That I _loved_ you? It would be a pity to suppress so evident a fact. Though how you could have been so blind, my pet, puzzles me. Well, then, to-morrow let it be. And now I will walk home with you, lest any hobgoblin, jealous of my joy should spirit you away from me." Together and rather silently we go through the wood and out into the road beyond. I am conscious that every now and then Marmaduke's eyes seek my face and dwell there with a smile in them that betrays his extreme and utter satisfaction. As for me, I am neither glad nor sorry, nor anything, but rather fearful of the consequence when my engagement shall be made public in the home circle. As yet my marriage is a thing so faint, so far away in the dim distance, that it causes me little or no annoyance. Suddenly I stop short in the middle of the road and burst into irrepressible laughter. "What is it?" asks Mr. Carrington, who is smiling in sympathy. "Oh that sneeze!" I say when I can speak "coming just in the middle of your proposal. Could anything have been so unsuitable, so utterly out of place? That odious little convulsion! I shall always think of the whole scene with abhorrence." "Suppose I propose to you all over again?" suggests Mr. Carrington. "It is impossible you can bring it in so unfortunately a second time; and you can then recollect the important event with more complaisance." "No, no. A second addition would be flat, stale, and unprofitable; and besides, it does not really matter, does it? Only I suppose it would be more correct to feel grave and tearful, instead of comical, on such occasions." "_Nothing_ matters," exclaims Marmaduke, fervently, seizing my hand and kissing it, "since you have promised to be my wife. And _soon_ Phyllis--is it not so?" "Oh, no; _certainly_ not _soon_," I return, decidedly. "There is plenty of time. There is no hurry; and I do not want to be married for _ever_ so long." My lover's countenance falls. "What do you mean by 'ever so long?'" he asks. "Two or three years, perhaps." "Phyllis! how can you be so unreasonable, so _absurd?_" says he, his face flushing. "_Two years!_ It is an eternity. Say six months, if you will; though even _that_ is a ridiculous delay." "If you talk like that," I say, stopping to stare fixedly at him, "I will not marry you at all. We had better decide the question at once. If you mean to say you think seriously I will marry you in _six months_, all I can say is, you are very much mistaken. I would not marry the Prince of Wales in six months; _there!_ If you once mention the subject to papa, and he discovers I do not wish to be hurried into the marriage, I have no doubt, he will insist on my becoming a bride in six _days_. But rather than submit to any tyranny in the matter I would run away and _drown_ myself." I utter this appalling threat with every outward demonstration of seriousness. Really the last hour has developed in a wonderful manner my powers of conversation.