“I hope not,” cried Frances hurriedly. “However,” she added, after another pause, colouring deeply, but yet looking at him with a certain courageous air, “if there was any question about being--married, which of course there is not--I never heard that there was any other way.” “Brava, Fan! Come, now, here is the little thing’s own opinion, which is worth a great deal. It would not matter, then, who the man was, so long as _that_ happened, eh? Let us know the premises on either side.” “You are a great deal older than I am, Markham,” said Frances. “Granted, my dear--a great deal. And what then? I should be wiser, you mean to say? But so I am, Fan.” “It was not _that_ I meant. I mean, it is you who ought--to marry. You are a man. You are the eldest, the chief one of your family. I have always read in books----” Markham put up his hand as a shield. He stopped to laugh, repeating over and over again that one note of mirth with which it was his wont to express his feelings. “Brava, Fan!” he repeated when he could speak. “You are a little Trojan. This is something like carrying the war into the enemy’s country.” He was so much tickled by the assault, that the water stood in his eyes. “What a good thing we are not in the Row, where I should have been delivered over to the talk of the town. Frances, my little dear, you are the funniest of little philosophers.” “Where is the fun?” said Frances gravely. “And I am not a philosopher, Markham; I am only--your sister.” At this the little man became serious all at once, and took her hand and drew it within his arm. They were walking up Constitution Hill, where there are not many spectators. “Yes, my dear,” he said, “and as nice a little sister as a man could desire;” and walked on, holding her arm close to him with an expressive clasp which spoke more than words. The touch of nature and the little suggestive proffer of affection and kindred which was in the girl’s words, touched his heart. He said nothing till they were about emerging upon the noise and clamour of the world at the great thoroughfare which they had to cross. Then “After all,” he said, “yours is a very natural proposition, Fan. It is I who ought to marry. Many people would say it is my duty; and perhaps I might have been of that opinion once. But I’ve a great deal on my conscience, dear. You think I’m rather a good little man, don’t you? fond of ladies’ society, and of my mother and little sister, which is such a good feature, everybody says? Well, but that’s a mistake, my dear. I don’t know that I am at all a fit person to be walking about London streets and into the Park with an innocent little creature, such as you are, under my arm.” “Markham!” she cried, with a tone which was half astonished, half indignant, and her arm thrilled within his--not, perhaps, with any intention of withdrawing itself; but that was what he thought.