the going home at the end of the day to that big forlorn house of my grandfather's, with a lot of servants imposing on me the ceremony and formality that they and I have been brought up to—all that for myself alone—and I have n't felt as if it would be right to make a change; the poor creatures are dependent on that for their living, they're trying to be useful, and I can't turn them off—it's all they can do. But I don't care for such solitary state; it bores me; it bores me to do everything; it bores me to eat. The only thing that gets me through my meals is an interesting habit I've taken up of counting the number of times I chew each mouthful—and keeping a record in a little book; and that's not a very intellectual amusement, is it?"
"Not very; but it must be a healthful one. You look extremely well."
"Do I? Then I'm sorry to hear it, for I'm really in a very bad way and I want sympathy. I've come to you for sympathy," Floyd said solemnly. "I hope you'll give it." He hesitated a moment, then he continued with more genuine seriousness, "Of course the whole trouble is, I'm not satisfied to be a bachelor. I never have been satisfied, since I was old enough to—to care about a girl. There's one girl that I'd have married if I could, but Stewart Lee came in ahead of me. I ought n't to have gone on caring for her, but I did; I suppose I always shall, in some sort of way. At the same time I feel that that need n't prevent me from caring for my wife, if I were lucky enough to have a wife, and if she could overlook the fact of—of this other girl."
"Whom you really love," said Marion.
"Ah, it's hardly fair—or true—to say that," he answered, and he met her eyes with a gentle smile. "I care for you so very much, Marion; you're the only girl except Lydia for whom I've ever cared, and I—I should n't be asking you to be my wife if I did n't very much want you—"
