“And Versailles—­the King’s Gallery is some such gorgeous room, is it not?”

“Yes.  But what’s the use of talking of gorgeous rooms?  By the way, the Little Trianon would suit us beautifully to live in, and you might walk in the gardens in the moonlight and think you were in some English shrubbery; it is laid out in English fashion.”

“I should hate to think that!”

“Then you could keep to the lawn in front of the Grand Palace.  All about there you would doubtless feel in a world of historical romance.”

He went on, since it was all new to her, and described Fontainebleau, St. Cloud, the Bois, and many other familiar haunts of the Parisians; till she said—­

“When used you to go to these places?”

“On Sundays.”

“Ah, yes.  I dislike English Sundays.  How I should chime in with their manners over there!  Dear Clym, you’ll go back again?”

Clym shook his head, and looked at the eclipse.

“If you’ll go back again I’ll—­be something,” she said tenderly, putting her head near his breast.  “If you’ll agree I’ll give my promise, without making you wait a minute longer.”

“How extraordinary that you and my mother should be of one mind about this!” said Yeobright.  “I have vowed not to go back, Eustacia.  It is not the place I dislike; it is the occupation.”

“But you can go in some other capacity.”

“No.  Besides, it would interfere with my scheme.  Don’t press that, Eustacia.  Will you marry me?”

“I cannot tell.”

“Now—­never mind Paris; it is no better than other spots.  Promise, sweet!”

“You will never adhere to your education plan, I am quite sure; and then it will be all right for me; and so I promise to be yours for ever and ever.”

Clym brought her face towards his by a gentle pressure of the hand, and kissed her.

“Ah! but you don’t know what you have got in me,” she said.  “Sometimes I think there is not that in Eustacia Vye which will make a good homespun wife.  Well, let it go—­see how our time is slipping, slipping, slipping!” She pointed towards the half eclipsed moon.

“You are too mournful.”

“No.  Only I dread to think of anything beyond the present.  What is, we know.  We are together now, and it is unknown how long we shall be so; the unknown always fills my mind with terrible possibilities, even when I may reasonably expect it to be cheerful...  Clym, the eclipsed moonlight shines upon your face with a strange foreign colour, and shows its shape as if it were cut out in gold.  That means that you should be doing better things than this.”

“You are ambitious, Eustacia—­no, not exactly ambitious, luxurious.  I ought to be of the same vein, to make you happy, I suppose.  And yet, far from that, I could live and die in a hermitage here, with proper work to do.”