“She had it out of me before I knew,” said Dunham. “I didn't realize what she was after; and I didn't realize how peculiar the situation might seem--” “I see nothing peculiar in the situation,” interrupted Staniford, haughtily. Then he laughed consciously. “Or, yes, I do; of course I do! You must know _her_ to appreciate it, though.” He mused a while before he added: “No wonder Mrs. Rivers was determined to come aboard! I wish we had let her,--confound her! She'll think I was ashamed of it. There's nothing to be ashamed of! By Heaven, I should like to hear any one--” Staniford broke off, and laughed, and then bit his lip, smiling. Suddenly he burst out again, frowning: “I won't view it in that light. I refuse to consider it from that point of view. As far as I'm concerned, it's as regular as anything else in life. It's the same to me as if she were in her own house, and I had come there to tell her that she has my future in her hand. She's such a lady by instinct that she's made it all a triumph, and I thank God that I haven't done or said anything to mar it. Even that beast of a Hicks didn't; it's no merit. I've made love to her,--I own it; of course I have, because I was in love with her; and my fault has been that I haven't made love to her openly, but have gone on fancying that I was studying her character, or some rubbish of that sort. But the fault is easily repaired.” He turned about, as if he were going to look for Lydia at once, and ask her to be his wife. But he halted abruptly, and sat down. “No; that won't do,” he said. “That won't do at all.” He remained thinking, and Dunham, unwilling to interrupt his reverie, moved a few paces off. “Dunham, don't go. I want your advice. Perhaps I don't see it in the right light.” “How is it you see it, my dear fellow?” asked Dunham. “I don't know whether I've a right to be explicit with her, here. It seems like taking an advantage. In a few days she will be with her friends--” “You must wait,” said Dunham, decisively. “You can't speak to her before she is in their care; it wouldn't be the thing. You're quite right about that.” “No, it wouldn't be the thing,” groaned Staniford. “But how is it all to go on till then?” he demanded desperately. “Why, just as it has before,” answered Dunham, with easy confidence. “But is that fair to her?” “Why not? You mean to say to her at the right time all that a man can. Till that time comes I haven't the least doubt she understands you.” “Do you think so?” asked Staniford, simply. He had suddenly grown very subject and meek to Dunham. “Yes,” said the other, with the superiority of a betrothed lover; “women are very quick about those things.” “I suppose you're right,” sighed Staniford, with nothing of his wonted arrogant pretension in regard to women's moods and minds, “I suppose you're right. And you would go on just as before?” “I would, indeed. How could you change without making her unhappy--if she's interested in you?”