“But you had been staying at Anglebury?”

“No.  I had been at Budmouth—­till two days ago—­and that was where I had intended to take her; but when I came to fetch her we decided upon Anglebury, forgetting that a new license would be necessary.  There was not time to get to Budmouth afterwards.”

“I think you are very much to blame,” said Mrs. Yeobright.

“It was quite my fault we chose Anglebury,” Thomasin pleaded.  “I proposed it because I was not known there.”

“I know so well that I am to blame that you need not remind me of it,” replied Wildeve shortly.

“Such things don’t happen for nothing,” said the aunt.  “It is a great slight to me and my family; and when it gets known there will be a very unpleasant time for us.  How can she look her friends in the face tomorrow?  It is a very great injury, and one I cannot easily forgive.  It may even reflect on her character.”

“Nonsense,” said Wildeve.

Thomasin’s large eyes had flown from the face of one to the face of the other during this discussion, and she now said anxiously, “Will you allow me, aunt, to talk it over alone with Damon for five minutes?  Will you, Damon?”

“Certainly, dear,” said Wildeve, “if your aunt will excuse us.”  He led her into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Yeobright by the fire.

As soon as they were alone, and the door closed, Thomasin said, turning up her pale, tearful face to him, “It is killing me, this, Damon!  I did not mean to part from you in anger at Anglebury this morning; but I was frightened, and hardly knew what I said.  I’ve not let aunt know how much I have suffered to-day; and it is so hard to command my face and voice, and to smile as if it were a slight thing to me; but I try to do so, that she may not be still more indignant with you.  I know you could not help it, dear, whatever aunt may think.”

“She is very unpleasant.”

“Yes,” Thomasin murmured, “and I suppose I seem so now...  Damon, what do you mean to do about me?”

“Do about you?”

“Yes.  Those who don’t like you whisper things which at moments make me doubt you.  We mean to marry, I suppose, don’t we?”

“Of course we do.  We have only to go to Budmouth on Monday, and we marry at once.”

“Then do let us go!—­O Damon, what you make me say!” She hid her face in her handkerchief.  “Here am I asking you to marry me, when by rights you ought to be on your knees imploring me, your cruel mistress, not to refuse you, and saying it would break your heart if I did.  I used to think it would be pretty and sweet like that; but how different!”

“Yes, real life is never at all like that.”

“But I don’t care personally if it never takes place,” she added with a little dignity; “no, I can live without you.  It is aunt I think of.  She is so proud, and thinks so much of her family respectability, that she will be cut down with mortification if this story should get abroad before—­it is done.  My cousin Clym, too, will be much wounded.”