Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable
for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not
broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and
gentle; after it--as the horrid phrase went--she had been exactly
the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of
Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in
bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more
than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;
at his words she had turned and stood between him and the light
with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her
unashamed, feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things
that really mattered were unshaken.
So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever,
she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but
simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make
him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled
the step; he must write her a long account.
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