John put her out of his arms very gently, and walked towards the window.  His face was pale, but he still smiled, and his hazel eyes were bright.

“You’re angry, John,” said Lady Mary, very sweetly and humbly.  “You’ve a right to be angry.”

“I am not angry,” he said gently.  “I may be—­a little—­disappointed.”  He did not look round.

“You know I was too happy,” said poor Lady Mary.  She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands.  “It was wicked of me to be so happy, and now I’m going to be punished for it.”

John’s great heart melted within him.  He came swiftly back to her and knelt by her side, and kissed the little hand she gave him.

“Too happy, were you?” he said, with a tenderness that rendered his deep voice unsteady.  “Because you promised to marry me when Peter came home?”

“That, and—­and everything else,” she whispered.  “Life seemed to have widened out, and grown so beautiful.  All the dull, empty hours were filled.  Our music, our reading, our companionship, our long walks and talks, our letters to each other—­all those pleasures which you showed me were at once so harmless and so delightful.  And as if that were not enough—­came love.  Such love as I had only dreamed of—­such understanding of each other’s every thought and word, as I did not know was possible between man and woman—­or at least”—­she corrected herself sadly—­“between any man and a woman—­of my age.”

“You talk of your age,” said John, smiling tenderly, “as though it were a crime.”

“It is not a crime, but it is a tragedy,” said Lady Mary.  “Age is a tragedy to every woman who wants to be happy.”

“No more, surely, than to every man who loves his work, and sees it slipping from his grasp,” said John, slowly.  “It’s a tragedy we all have to face, for that matter.”

“But so much later,” said Lady Mary, quickly.

“I don’t see why women should leave off wanting to be happy any sooner than men,” he said stoutly.

“But Nature does,” she answered.

John’s eyes twinkled.  “For my part, I am thankful to fate, which caused me to fall in love with a woman only ten years my junior, instead of with a girl young enough to be my daughter.  I have gained a companion as well as a wife; and marvellously adaptive as young women are, I am conceited enough to think my ideas have travelled beyond the ideas of most girls of eighteen; and I am not conceited enough to suppose the girl of eighteen would not find me an old fogey very much in the way.  Let boys mate with girls, say I, and men with women.”

Lady Mary smiled in spite of herself.  “You know, John, you would argue entirely the other way round if you happened to be in love with—­Sarah,” she said.

“To be sure,” said John; “it’s my trade to argue for the side which retains my services.  I am your servant, thank Heaven, and not Sarah’s.  And I have no intention of quitting your service,” he added, more gravely.  “We have settled the question of the future.”