Nita was nerveless, cold, and trembling–perhaps never in her life had she felt so unhappy as in this moment–which should have been the one of supreme delight–when the man she loved with all her soul asked her to be his wife. ‘Jerome–I–do you mean that you wish this?’ she asked, desperately plunging into the question. ‘I mean that I wish it more than anything in the world; and listen, Nita–I would not conceal this from you–that I have loved, and loved deeply, before ever I knew you: but that is all over, gone, done with, finished! I cannot offer you all the passion of a first strong love, but I can offer you my life’s devotion, if you will be so good, so wonderfully good, as to take it.’ He saw the blank shade that came over her face: he believed that she was going to summon up her strength of will to refuse him. If she did, what was left to him–what in this world to make life worth an hour’s living? ‘Nita!’ he pleaded, in dire and dreadful earnest; ‘for God’s sake think before you speak! Do not cast me away! Try to bear with me–or–or–I shall be the most miserable wretch that ever lived!’ There was passion–there was even anguish in his tone–emotions which Nita read there, and which overpowered her. All her love, all her self-abnegation rushed out to meet him: ‘Oh, Jerome, if you care for my love–if it will give you one hour’s comfort–it is yours, it is yours! And my whole life with it–for I love you better than you can ever know.’ ‘Better than I can ever deserve, try as I may,’ he murmured, in the deep tone of conviction, as he folded her in his arms, and soothed the passionate agitation which shook her–and tried to quench the tears which rushed from her eyes–tears which none could have named with certainty as being of joy or of grief. But the die was cast: the bargain was struck. He might return to his home with a mind free of care for the future; but with all the diviner elements in his nature degraded, soiled, maimed, for they had been dragged through the dust, and grievously maltreated. Avice and her escorts arrived late that afternoon, and he met them, and they went with him to his house. That is, Avice and Ellen went with him–Somerville returned to Brentwood. Avice felt a chill dismay strike her heart, at her brother’s reception of her. There was an absence, a constraint, a coldness in all his words and movements, which would not be removed. She expressed her delight at the sight of her new home, and he absently replied that it was very well, but rather dreary. She felt very soon that some miserable explanation was to come. It came almost directly. They had got into the house, and Avice had taken off her things, and was somewhat languidly partaking of the meal which had been placed before her. Suddenly she said: ‘Jerome, you have never once asked after Sara.’