I mean, he trusts me enough to marry me.

...

He will be safe enough, as far as my personal conduct is concerned," she added naively.

"It seems that I am capable of love; but I am incapable of its degradation." Siward, leaning heavily forward over his desk, rested his head in both hands; and she stooped from her perch on the arm of the chair, pressing her hot cheeks against his hands--a moment only; then slipping to her feet, she curled up in a great arm-chair by the fire, head tipped back, blue gaze concentrated on him.
"The thing for you to do," she said, "is to ambush me some night, and throw me into a hansom, and drive us both to the parson's.

I'd hate you for it as much as I'd love you, but I'd make you an interesting wife." "I may do that yet," he said, lifting his head from his hands.
"You've a year to do it in," she observed.