The
beef and pudding of married life are then in store for him;--or
perhaps only the bread and cheese. Let him take care lest hardly a
crust remain--or perhaps not a crust. But before we finish, let us go
back for one moment to the dainties--to the time before the beef and
pudding were served--while Lucy was still at the parsonage, and Lord
Lufton still staying at Framley Court. He had come up one morning, as
was now frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes' conversation,
Mrs. Robarts had left the room--as not unfrequently on such occasions
was her wont. Lucy was working and continued her work, and Lord
Lufton for a moment or two sat looking at her; then he got up
abruptly, and, standing before her, thus questioned her:--
"Lucy," said he.
"Well, what of Lucy now? Any particular fault this morning?"
"Yes, a most particular fault. When I asked you, here, in this room,
on this very spot, whether it was possible that you should love
me--why did you say that it was impossible?"
Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down upon the
carpet, to see if his memory were as good as hers. Yes; he was
standing on the exact spot where he had stood before. No spot in all
the world was more frequently clear before her own eyes.
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