"Well, then," he went on with evident agitation in his voice, "I must tell you the whole truth; I hoped that you would have guessed it--it is so simple.

Your cousin, Clotilde, has now been a widow for nearly two years; that, I believe, is the term consecrated by custom to the mourning of a husband.

I am aware of your feelings toward her; you may now marry her, and you will be perfectly right in doing so.

Nothing seems to me more just, more natural, more worthy of her and of yourself.

I beg to assure you that my friendship for you shall remain faithful and entire, but I trust you will not object to my keeping away for a short time.