"Does it matter? We shall live outside the world, not in it."

"And then you never go to church?"

"I will make an exception to the rule by taking you there for half an hour while the parson prays over us. How is it to be? Perhaps you should think it over before you answer. I have nothing to give you--"

"Oh--" she raised her eyes and looked at him reproachfully.

"I am a poor man, with a couple of hundred a year, and no more to come. I can be no help to you in your home, but I want nothing more from it than I have now. You can keep it all for Hannah by-and-by. Well?" he asked again.

With a little sigh she drew closer to him. "I couldn't say 'No,' Mr. Vincent, for I'm fonder of you than of any one in the world." He tried to look into her eyes, but they were downcast, and a twitch came to her lips. He stooped and kissed her forehead, and waited till she spoke again. "You'll be good to Hannah?" she said, anxiously. "You see she won't be away so much by-and-by, and she'll look to come to her home. You wouldn't interfere with her?"

"My dear soul, I should interfere with nothing. I don't know why I am trying to disturb our present relationship, except that it seems to be the only way of preventing it from coming to an end. Things will go on just the same as they have done. I don't propose to alter anything. We will be married one morning at Haslemere--or Guildford, perhaps; no one will be likely to come upon us there--and Woodside Farm will be Woodside Farm still, though you are Mrs. Vincent. We will settle down for the rest of our lives and let nothing in the distance disturb us."

"I will make you as comfortable as I can," she said in a low voice, at which he smiled a little ruefully and looked round the living-room. Then he put his arms slowly round her and drew her to him with quiet affection and as if he thought their new relationship demanded it. This was their sober betrothal.

The folk at Chidhurst village and at the outlying farms talked a good deal when they heard that Mrs. Barton was going to be married to Gerald Vincent--for somehow it soon came to be known. He was a stranger, and nearly eight years her junior; they had discovered this, and one or two other things concerning him, that he had two hundred pounds a year, and did no work save writing--writing books, perhaps, which was not work at all, but the sort of thing that people did when they had nothing else to do. 

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