She honoured me with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in departing, but, little moved thereby, I went on talking; and setting a chair for Mrs.Graham on one side of the hearth, and one for myself on the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she would rather see me go.
In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire--she intent upon her own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be seated thus beside her with no other presence to restrain our intercourse--not even that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we had never met before--if only I could venture to speak my mind, and disburden my full heart of the feelings that had so long oppressed it, and which it now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to continue much longer,--and revolving the pros and cons for opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious tongues.

On the one hand, I felt a new-born confidence in my powers of persuasion--a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would grant me eloquence--that my very determination--the absolute necessity for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when time and patience might have won success.

It was like setting my life upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the attempt.

At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, to her own.
But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon us, said,--'Gilbert, it is getting late.' 'I see,' said I.

'You want me to go, I suppose ?' 'I think you ought.