"Never, thank Heaven!" responded Howard, devoutly. "When I think of it,
I acknowledge that I have much to be thankful for. I was once: she was
a girl with dark eyes--but I will spare you a minute description. I met
her in a country rectory--_is_ that horse, I think you call it the near
one--going to jump over the bank? And one remarkably fine evening--it
was moonlight, I remember--I was on the point of declaring my love; and
then the gods saved me. The thought flashed upon me that, if she said
'yes,' I should have to sit opposite her at dinner for the rest of one
of our lives. It saved me. I said that I thought it was chilly, and
went in and up to bed, grateful for my escape. Why don't you laugh?"
Stafford only smiled in a perfunctory fashion. He was thinking of the
girl he had watched riding off on the unbroken colt; of what it would
seem like if she were seated opposite him, with the candle-light
falling on her soft white dress, with diamonds gleaming in it, diamonds
outshone by the splendour of those dark, violet-grey eyes; of what it
would seem like if he could rise from his seat and go to her and take
her in his arms and look into those dark grey eyes, and say, "You are
mine, mine!" with no one to say him nay.
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