“No, it is my general way of looking.  I think it arises from my feeling sometimes an agonizing pity for myself that I ever was born.”

“You don’t feel it now?”

“No.  Yet I know that we shall not love like this always.  Nothing can ensure the continuance of love.  It will evaporate like a spirit, and so I feel full of fears.”

“You need not.”

“Ah, you don’t know.  You have seen more than I, and have been into cities and among people that I have only heard of, and have lived more years than I; but yet I am older at this than you.  I loved another man once, and now I love you.”

“In God’s mercy don’t talk so, Eustacia!”

“But I do not think I shall be the one who wearies first.  It will, I fear, end in this way:  your mother will find out that you meet me, and she will influence you against me!”

“That can never be.  She knows of these meetings already.”

“And she speaks against me?”

“I will not say.”

“There, go away!  Obey her.  I shall ruin you.  It is foolish of you to meet me like this.  Kiss me, and go away for ever.  For ever—­do you hear?—­for ever!”

“Not I.”

“It is your only chance.  Many a man’s love has been a curse to him.”

“You are desperate, full of fancies, and wilful; and you misunderstand.  I have an additional reason for seeing you tonight besides love of you.  For though, unlike you, I feel our affection may be eternal, I feel with you in this, that our present mode of existence cannot last.”

“Oh! ’tis your mother.  Yes, that’s it!  I knew it.”

“Never mind what it is.  Believe this, I cannot let myself lose you.  I must have you always with me.  This very evening I do not like to let you go.  There is only one cure for this anxiety, dearest—­you must be my wife.”

She started:  then endeavoured to say calmly, “Cynics say that cures the anxiety by curing the love.”

“But you must answer me.  Shall I claim you some day—­I don’t mean at once?”

“I must think,” Eustacia murmured.  “At present speak of Paris to me.  Is there any place like it on earth?”

“It is very beautiful.  But will you be mine?”

“I will be nobody else’s in the world—­does that satisfy you?”

“Yes, for the present.”

“Now tell me of the Tuileries, and the Louvre,” she continued evasively.

“I hate talking of Paris!  Well, I remember one sunny room in the Louvre which would make a fitting place for you to live in—­the Galerie d’Apollon.  Its windows are mainly east; and in the early morning, when the sun is bright, the whole apartment is in a perfect blaze of splendour.  The rays bristle and dart from the encrustations of gilding to the magnificent inlaid coffers, from the coffers to the gold and silver plate, from the plate to the jewels and precious stones, from these to the enamels, till there is a perfect network of light which quite dazzles the eye.  But now, about our marriage—­”