'Believe me, you are utterly mistaken. Such an idea as your not being good enough for me never crossed my mind--in fact, it could not enter my mind: and now even this denial of it seems affronting the respect I have felt for you. I feel I owe myself an apology for denying I ever felt anything of the kind. If anyone but you, Marie, had suggested such a possibility, I should simply laugh at him; I should not condescend to answer him seriously. It is about myself I feel uneasy; I do not think I am worthy of you.' 'Oh, George, you cannot be in earnest!' 'In bitter earnest. I do not think I am worthy of you; and I want you to give me a little time to find out, if I can--to satisfy myself, if I can--that I am worthy of you.' 'I cannot understand you, George--I cannot understand you. You are, I know, quite incapable of saying anything you have not good reason for saying; but I cannot understand you. I am quite content with you; why are not you content with yourself?' 'Marie, whatever happens between us, there must be no misunderstanding. Misunderstandings occur between only the vain and the foolish. When first I spoke of love to you, my belief was that when people like you and me agreed to love one another on earth, it was that they simply entered into an apprenticeship of eternal love.' 'I remember every word you have said to me--I have never forgotten one; and the words you speak of were the sweetest I had ever heard.' 'Suppose I have changed since then?' 'Changed in what?' 'In my idea of the carrying of our loves out of the world. Suppose I do not think we shall carry any memory out of this world--suppose I think the grave is the end of man? What then?' 'I am still unable to understand you. Make it plainer for me, George; you know I am only a dull woman. Tell me exactly what you mean?' 'Suppose I was to say, with Tennyson's "Lotus Eaters," "Death is the end of life," would you still marry me?' 'George, what difference would that make between you and me?' 'Don't you remember what you promised me when I put the ring on your finger under St Paul's?' 'Yes.' 'And would you, remembering what you then promised, marry me, even if I told you I no longer held the faith I then professed?' 'But, George, it is not so. You have not lost your faith. You are not serious; you are only trying me--George, you are only trying me. Tell me you are not serious, and let us be happy, George, as we were before.' 'I am not trying you, Marie. I am in sad earnest. I ask you, if I told you my opinions had changed, would you still marry me, in face of the promise you made me under St Paul's?' 'I would.' CHAPTER VIII. ON THE WAY DOWN.