Surely nothing more pitiable had ever been known than the condition of this poor young thing, now as heretofore the victim of her father's well-meant but blundering policy.
Even in the hour of Melbury's greatest assurance Winterborne had harbored a suspicion that no law, new or old, could undo Grace's marriage without her appearance in public; though he was not sufficiently sure of what might have been enacted to destroy by his own words her pleasing idea that a mere dash of the pen, on her father's testimony, was going to be sufficient.

But he had never suspected the sad fact that the position was irremediable.
Poor Grace, perhaps feeling that she had indulged in too much fluster for a mere kiss, calmed herself at finding how grave he was.

"I am glad we are friends again anyhow," she said, smiling through her tears.
"Giles, if you had only shown half the boldness before I married that you show now, you would have carried me off for your own first instead of second.

If we do marry, I hope you will never think badly of me for encouraging you a little, but my father is SO impatient, you know, as his years and infirmities increase, that he will wish to see us a little advanced when he comes.

That is my only excuse." To Winterborne all this was sadder than it was sweet.