Arthur had written once or twice during the month; but in none of his
letters was there any mention of Lady Muriel. Still, I did not augur
ill from his silence: to me it looked like the natural action of a lover,
who, even while his heart was singing "She is mine!", would fear to
paint his happiness in the cold phrases of a written letter, but would
wait to tell it by word of mouth. "Yes," I thought, "I am to hear his
song of triumph from his own lips!"
The night I arrived we had much to say on other matters: and, tired
with the journey, I went to bed early, leaving the happy secret still
untold. Next day, however, as we chatted on over the remains of
luncheon, I ventured to put the momentous question. "Well, old friend,
you have told me nothing of Lady Muriel--nor when the happy day is to be?"
"The happy day," Arthur said, looking unexpectedly grave, "is yet in
the dim future. We need to know--or, rather, she needs to know me better.
I know her sweet nature, thoroughly, by this time. But I dare not speak
till I am sure that my love is returned."
"Don't wait too long!" I said gaily. "Faint heart never won fair lady!"
"It is 'faint heart,' perhaps. But really I dare not speak just yet."
"But meanwhile," I pleaded, "you are running a risk that perhaps you
have not thought of. Some other man--"
"No," said Arthur firmly. "She is heart-whole: I am sure of that.
Yet, if she loves another better than me, so be it! I will not spoil
her happiness.
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