were some questions I had so wanted to go into that I wished we were once more in the Indian room. I presently gathered, however, that our privacy was all-sufficient. We communicated so closely and completely now, and with such silent reciprocities, that it would in every circumstance be adequate.
"Oh, yes, he's there," I said; "and at about a quarter-past seven he was in the hall."
"I knew it at the time, and I was so glad!"
"So glad?"
"That it was your affair, this time, and not mine. It's a rest for me."
"Did you sleep all the afternoon?" I asked.
"As I haven't done for months. But how did you know that?"
"As you knew, I take it, that Sir Edmund was in the hall. We shall evidently each of us know things now—where the other is concerned."
"Where he is concerned," Mrs. Marden amended. "It's a blessing, the way you take it," she added, with a long, mild sigh.
"I take it as a man who's in love with your daughter."
"Of course—of course." Intense as I now felt my desire for the girl to be, I couldn't help laughing a little at the tone of these words; and it led my companion immediately to say: "Otherwise you wouldn't have seen him."
"But every one doesn't see him who's in love with her, or there would be dozens."
"They're not in love with her as you are."
"I can, of course, only speak for myself; and I found a moment, before dinner, to do so."
"She told me immediately."
"And have I any hope—any chance?"
