‘I’m afraid I’m not quite that,’ said Mr Portland; ‘but still I am in a position to give any reasonable woman everything she can possibly require. My income is pretty regular, and I would engage to make a handsome allowance to any lady who honoured me with her preference. I tell you this because Ilfracombe has often told me that you have an excellent head for business. By George!’ said Mr Portland, again screwing his glass into his unhappy and long-suffering eye, ‘with such beauty as yours, you have no right to know anything about business; still, if you do--there you are, you see!’ ‘But what has all this to do with me, Mr Portland,’ remarked Miss Llewellyn with a puzzled air. ‘I am sure any lady you may choose to marry will be a very lucky woman. Ilfracombe has often called you the best fellow he knows. But why should you tell me this? Are you already engaged to be married?’ ‘By Jove! no, and not likely to be. Do I look like a marrying man, Miss Llewellyn? But there!--I can’t beat about the bush any longer! You must have seen my admiration--my worship for you! It is on _you_ my choice has fallen! Say that I have not been too presumptuous; that you will consent to share my fortune; that you will, in fact, look as kindly on me as you have on my fortunate friend, Ilfracombe?’ At first she did not understand his meaning; she did not realise that this farrago of nonsense had been addressed to herself. It was so entirely unexpected, so utterly unthought of. But when she _did_ take in the meaning of his words, when she awoke to the knowledge that Mr Portland, the intimate friend of Lord Ilfracombe, had _dared_ to offer her his protection, Nell sprung from her position on the sofa, and retreated to the back of it. Her tawny eyes were blazing with fire, her hands were clenched, her breast heaved violently, she could hardly speak. Under the indignation of her burning glances, the man before her seemed to shrivel like a dry leaf before the flame. ‘How dare you?’ she panted. ‘How _dare_ you insult me like that? What do you mean? How can I be your friend, or the friend of any man but Ilfracombe? I am _his_ wife; you know I am; and shall be till I die!’ ‘His _wife_? pooh!’ said Jack Portland, ‘don’t talk rubbish to me like that.’