"Though it is perhaps impossible that there should be between us that passionate love that there might be between people that are nearer each other in age--more fitly mated--yet there is no reason why we should not _like_ each other very heartily, is there, dear?
why there should not be between us absolute confidence, perfect frankness--that is the great thing, is not it ?" He is looking with such intense wistfulness at me, that I turn away.

Why should not there be passionate love between us?
Who is there but himself to hinder it?
So I make no answer.
"I dare say," he says, taking my right hand, and holding it with a cool and kindly clasp, "that you think it difficult--next door to impossible--for two people, one at the outset, one almost on the confines of life, to enter very understandingly into each other's interests! No doubt the thought that I--being so much ahead of you in years"-- (sighing again heavily)--"cannot see with your eyes, or look at things from your stand-point--would make it harder for you to come to me in your troubles; but indeed, dear, if you believe me, I will _try_, and, as we are to spend our lives together, I think it would be better, would not it ?" He speaks with a deprecating humility, an almost imploring gentleness, but I am so thoroughly upset by the astounding change that has come over the tone of his talk--by the clouds that have suddenly darkened the morning sunshine of my horizon--that I cannot answer him in the same tone.
"Perhaps we shall not have to spend all our lives together!" I say, with a harsh laugh.

"Cheer up! One of us may _die_! who knows ?" After that we neither of us say any thing till we reach the house..