"I am greatly obliged to you for what you have said. Such a speech as
that deserves to be listened to with consideration. You may come back
to-morrow," Angela added.

On the morrow, when he came back, she received him alone.

"How did you know, at Baden, that I did n't like you?" he asked, as soon
as she would allow him.

She smiled, very gently.

"You assured me yesterday that you did like me."

"I mean that I supposed I did n't. How did you know that?"

"I can only say that I observed."

"You must have observed very closely, for, superficially, I rather had
the air of admiring you," said Bernard.

"It was very superficial."

"You don't mean that; for, after all, that is just what my admiration,
my interest in you, were not. They were deep, they were latent. They
were not superficial--they were subterranean."

"You are contradicting yourself, and I am perfectly consistent,"
said Angela. "Your sentiments were so well hidden that I supposed I
displeased you."

"I remember that at Baden, you used to contradict yourself," Bernard
answered.

"You have a terrible memory!"

"Don't call it terrible, for it sees everything now in a charming
light--in the light of this understanding that we have at last arrived
at, which seems to shine backward--to shine full on those Baden days."

"Have we at last arrived at an understanding?" she asked, with a grave
directness which Bernard thought the most beautiful thing he had ever
seen.

"It only depends upon you," he declared; and then he broke out again
into a protestation of passionate tenderness. "Don't put me off this
time," he cried. "You have had time to think about it; you have had
time to get over the surprise, the shock. I love you, and I offer you
everything that belongs to me in this world." As she looked at him with
her dark, clear eyes, weighing this precious vow and yet not committing
herself--"Ah, you don't forgive me!" he murmured.

She gazed at him with the same solemn brightness.

"What have I to forgive you?"

This question seemed to him enchanting. He reached forward and took her
hands, and if Mrs. Vivian had come in she would have seen him kneeling
at her daughter's feet.

But Mrs. Vivian remained in seclusion, and Bernard saw her only the next
time he came.

"I am very happy, because I think my daughter is happy," she said.

"And what do you think of me?"

"I think you are very clever. You must promise me to be very good to
her."

"I a