“I suppose even people who get married have something to take back about each other,” said Staniford, rather sheepishly. “However,” he added, with an impulse of frankness, “I don't know that I should have dreamt of it myself, and I don't blame you. But it's a fact, nevertheless.” “Why, of course. It's splendid! Certainly. It's magnificent!” There was undoubtedly a qualification, a reservation, in Dunham's tone. He might have thought it right to bring the inequalities of the affair to Staniford's mind. With all his effusive kindliness of heart and manner, he had a keen sense of social fitness, a nice feeling for convention. But a man does not easily suggest to another that the girl with whom he has just declared himself in love is his inferior. What Dunham finally did say was: “It jumps with all your ideas--all your old talk about not caring to marry a society girl--” “Society might be very glad of such a girl!” said Staniford, stiffly. “Yes, yes, certainly; but I mean--” “Oh, I know what you mean. It's all right,” said Staniford. “But it isn't a question of marrying yet. I can't be sure she understood me,--I've been so long understanding myself. And yet, she must, she must! She must believe it by this time, or else that I'm the most infamous scoundrel alive. When I think how I have sought her out, and followed her up, and asked her judgment, and hung upon her words, I feel that I oughtn't to lose a moment in being explicit. I don't care for myself; she can take me or leave me, as she likes; but if she doesn't understand, she mustn't be left in suspense as to my meaning.” He seemed to be speaking to Dunham, but he was really thinking aloud, and Dunham waited for some sort of question before he spoke. “But it's a great satisfaction to have had it out with myself. I haven't got to pretend any more that I hang about her, and look at her, and go mooning round after her, for this no-reason and that; I've got the best reason in the world for playing the fool,--I'm in love!” He drew a long, deep breath. “It simplifies matters immensely to have reached the point of acknowledging that. Why, Dunham, those four days at Messina almost killed me! They settled it. When that woman was in full fascination it made me gasp. I choked for a breath of fresh air; for a taste of spring-water; for--Lurella!” It was a long time since Staniford had used this name, and the sound of it made him laugh. “It's droll--but I always think of her as Lurella; I wish it _was_ her name! Why, it was like heaven to see her face when I got back to the ship. After we met her that day at Messina, Mrs. Rivers tried her best to get out of me who it was, and where I met her. But I flatter myself that I was equal to _that_ emergency.” Dunham said nothing, at once. Then, “Staniford,” he faltered, “she got it out of me.” “Did you tell her who Lu--who Miss Blood was?” “Yes.” “And how I happened to be acquainted with her?” “Yes.” “And that we were going on to Trieste with her?”