"Why think of him?" says Sir Hastings contemptuously. He leans towards her: fired by her beauty, that is now enhanced by the regret that lies upon her pretty lips, he determines on pushing his cause at once. "If _he_ cannot appreciate you, others can--_I_ can. I----" He pauses; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion as this, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. To tell a woman he loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, but now, when at last he is in earnest--when poverty has driven him to seek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills--he finds himself tongue-tied; and not only by the importance of the situation, so far as money goes, but by the clear, calm, waiting eyes of Perpetua. "Yes?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answer she has demanded. "You mean that he----You, _too_, think that he dislikes me?" There is woe in the pale, small, lovely face. "Very probably. He was always eccentric. Perfect nuisance at home. None of us could understand him. I shouldn't in the least wonder if he had taken a rooted aversion to you, and taken it badly too! Miss Wynter! it quite distresses me to think that it should be _my_ brother, of all men, who has failed to see your charm. A charm that----" He pauses effectively, to let his really fine eyes have some play. The conservatory is sufficiently dark to disguise the ravages that dissipation has made upon his handsome features. He can see that Perpetua is regarding him earnestly, and with evident interest. Already he regards his cause as won. It is plain that the girl is attracted by his face, as indeed she is! She is at this moment asking herself, who is it he is like? "You were saying?" says she dreamily. "That the charm you possess, though of no value in the eyes of your guardian, is, to _me_, indescribably attractive. In fact--I----" A second pause, meant to be even more effective. Perpetua turns her gaze more directly upon him. It occurs to her that he is singularly dull, poor man. "Go on," says she. She nods her head at him with much encouragement. Her encouragement falls short. Sir Hastings, who had looked for girlish confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage. "May I?" says he--"You _permit_ me then to tell you what I have so longed, feared to disclose. I"--dramatically--"_love you_!" He is standing over her, his hand on the back of her chair, waiting for the swift blush, the tremor, the usual signs that follow on one of his declarations. Alas! there is no blush now, no tremor, no sign at all. "That is very good of you," says Perpetua, in an even tone. She moves a little away from him, but otherwise shows no emotion whatever. "The more so, in that it must be so difficult for you to love a person in fourteen days! Ah! that is kind, indeed."