She bent her head over her flowers, so that her eyes were quite hidden, and he could not see that they were full of tears; and for a long time there was silence, in which Sylvester's foot kept time nervously with the music. The girl bitterly reproached her tiredness, which had dulled apprehension so far that she had not realized at once the danger of the situation, nor retreated while there was yet time. She had always dreaded this; and now that it was accomplished, an illimitable vista of the disagreeable consequences broadened out before her. The ice being once broken, however she might answer him now, a repetition, perhaps even several, could scarcely be avoided; she foresaw that his persistence would be immense, so that with whatsoever finality she might refuse him, it would all be to go over again. And with it all was joined her natural reluctance to give an honest gentleman pain, only heightened by her sense that, for the first time in her knowledge of the man, the evident sincerity of his purpose had given simplicity to his speech. He for once had been neither formal nor absurd, and the uniqueness of the fact, taken in conjunction with her share in it, seemed to have given him a claim on her consideration. He had cast aside the armour of self-conceit at which she could have thrown a dart without remorse, and the man seeming so defenceless, she had a desire to deal gently with him. "Mr. Sylvester," she said at last, looking up at him, "I am so sorry, but please do not speak of this any more. Believe me, it is quite impossible. I am sensible of the honour you do me, deeply sensible, only it is impossible. Let us forget this--this mistake, and be better friends than we have ever been before." "Ah, Mary," he broke out, "you must not answer me like that, without consideration. Why should it be impossible?" "Forgive me," she said gently; "only I am tired now. And consideration would not alter it. Let me go." He put one hand out detaining her, and she sank back again wearily on her chair. "If you are tired, so much the more reason that you should hear me. You will not be tired if you marry me. If you are tired, it is because your life has no great interests: it's frivolous; it is dribbled away on little things. You don't really care for it--you are too good for it--the sort of life you lead." "The sort of life I lead?" "The ideals of your set, of the people who surround your aunt, of your aunt herself. The whole thing is barren." "Are we more frivolous than the rest?" she asked suddenly. "You are better than the rest," he said promptly. "That is why I want you to marry me. You were made for great interests--for a large scene." "What are they--your great interests, your ideals?" she asked presently. "How are they so much better than ours?--though I don't know what ours may be."