or Mr Grey was a man who knew well how to make words pleasant

“No, I’m not. I very seldom go into raptures about anything. But he talks in the way I like a man to talk. How he bowled my uncle over about those actors; and yet if my uncle knows anything about anything it is about the stage twenty years ago.” There was nothing more said then about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough to be aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spoke sometimes from his heart, and did so more frequently to his sister than to any one else; but his words came generally from his head.
On the day after the little dinner in Queen Anne Street, John Grey came to say goodbye to his betrothed — for his betrothed she certainly was, in spite of those very poor arguments which she had used in trying to convince herself that she was still free if she wished to claim her freedom. Though he had been constantly with Alice during the last three days, he had not hitherto said anything as to the day of their marriage, He had been constantly with her alone, sitting for hours in that ugly green drawing-room, but he had never touched the subject. He had told her much of Switzerland, which she had never yet seen but which he knew well. He had told her much of his garden and house, whither she had once gone with her father, whilst paying a visit nominally to the colleges at Cambridge. And he had talked of various matters, matters bearing in no immediate way upon his own or her affairs; for Mr Grey was a man who knew well how to make words pleasant; but previous to this last moment he had said nothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
“Well, Alice,” he said, when the last hour had come, “and about that question of home affairs?”
“No; you haven’t started. But we’ve had the discussion. Is there any reason why you’d rather not have this thing settled?”
“Then why not let it be fixed? Do you fear coming to me as my wife?”
“I cannot think that you repent your goodness to me.”
“No; I don’t repent it — what you call my goodness! I love you too entirely for that.”
“My darling!” And now he passed his arm round her waist as they stood near the empty fireplace. “And if you love me — ”
“Nay, but it is, love. Grant it, and I will swear that you have granted me everything.”
She was silent, having things to say but not knowing in what words to put them. Now that he was with her she could not say the things which she had told herself that she would utter to him. She could not bring herself to hint to him that his views of life were so unlike her own, that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless each could strive to lean somewhat towards the other. No man could be more gracious in word and manner than John Grey; no man more chivalrous in his carriage towards a woman; but he always spoke and acted as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a word or thought of doubting, by his wife. When two came together, why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him on this day; but now that he was with her she could not say it.
“John,” she said at last, “do not press me about this till I return.”
“But then you will say the time is short. It would be short then.”