othing."

"Not a word of what we said to each other when we were alone last week
in the picture gallery?"

"Not a word. I am self-tormentor enough to distrust myself, even now.
God knows I have concealed nothing from you; and yet--Am I not selfishly
thinking of my own happiness, Stella, when I ought to be thinking only
of you? You know, my angel, with what a life you must associate yourself
if you marry me. Are you really sure that you have love enough and
courage enough to be my wife?"

She rested her head caressingly on his shoulder, and looked up at him
with her charming smile.

"How many times must I say it," she asked, "before you will believe me?
Once more--I have love enough and courage enough to be your wife; and I
knew it, Lewis, the first time I saw you! Will _that_ confession satisfy
your scruples? And will you promise never again to doubt yourself or
me?"

Romayne promised, and sealed the promise--unresisted this time--with a
kiss. "When are we to be married?" he whispered.

She lifted her head from his shoulder with a sigh. "If I am to answer
you honestly," she replied, "I must speak of my mother, before I speak
of myself."

Romayne submitted to the duties of his new position, as well as he
understood them. "Do you mean that you have told your mother of our
engagement?" he said. "In that case, is it my duty or yours--I am very
ignorant in these matters--to consult her wishes? My own idea is, that
I ought to ask her if she approves of me as her son-in-law, and that you
might then speak to her of the marriage."

Stella thought of Romayne's tastes, all in favor of modest retirement,
and of her mother's tastes, all in favor of ostentation and display.
She frankly owned the result produced in her own mind. "I am afraid to
consult my mother about our marriage," she said.

Romayne looked astonished. "Do you think Mrs. Eyrecourt will disapprove
of it?" he asked.

Stella was equally astonished on her side. "Disapprove of it?" she
repeated. "I know for certain that my mother will be delighted."

"Then where is the difficulty?"

There was but one way of definitely answering that question. Stella
boldly described her mother's idea of a wedding--including the
Archbishop, the twelve bridesmaids in green and gold, and the hundred
guests at breakfast in Lord Loring's picture gallery. Romayne's
consternation literally deprived him, for the moment, of the power of
speech. To say that he looked at Stella, as a