Beneath the sketch he had written, "They
were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were not
divided." I remembered his telling me how young they were when they
were married. How his father had never cared for any one else, and how
he would like to do just the same, and marry the one lady of his love.
I began, too, to think Clerke was right when he replied to my
confidences, "I'm only afraid, Regie, that you don't know what love
is."
It was whilst these thoughts were crowding all too vividly into my
mind that Maria said, impressively, and with unmistakable clearness,
"After _all_, you know, Regie, he's a _thorough_ gentleman, if he _is_
poor. I must say _that_! And if he _has_ a profession instead of being
a landed proprietor, it's the _highest_ and _noblest_ profession there
is."
It seemed to take away my breath. But I was standing almost behind
Maria; she was preoccupied, and I had some presence of mind. I had
opportunity to realize the fact that I was not the object of Maria's
attachment, as I had supposed. I was not poor, I had no profession,
and my common avocations did not, I fear, deserve to be called high
or noble. The description in no way fitted me.
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