‘She wants me to marry her. You might have spared yourself many useless journeys and disappointments, and us a good deal of anxiety. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. He talked very little and rather absently. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. Until that was done a certain experience of life assured him that a girl is a locked coldness against a man’s approach. .
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