It was
not _I_ who promised--I was not born then. I myself, my soul, my mind,
my option--all this is but a month old! Ah," he went on, "if you knew
the difference it makes--this having chosen and broken and spoken! I am
twice the man I was yesterday! Yesterday I was afraid of her; there was
a kind of mocking mystery of knowledge and cleverness about her, which
oppressed me in the midst of my love. But now I am afraid of nothing but
of being too happy!"
I stood silent, to let him spend his eloquence. But he paused a moment,
and took off his hat and fanned himself. "Let me perfectly understand,"
I said at last. "You have asked Madame Blumenthal to be your wife?"
"The wife of my intelligent choice!"
"And does she consent?"
"She asks three days to decide."
"Call it four! She has known your secret since this morning. I am bound
to let you know I told her."
"So much the better!" cried Pickering, without apparent resentment or
surprise. "It's not a brilliant offer for such a woman, and in spite of
what I have at stake, I feel that it would be brutal to press her."
"What does she say to your breaking your promise?" I asked in a moment.
Pickering was too much in love for false shame. "She tells me that she
loves me too much to find courage to condemn me.
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