“Hold your peace, madam,” said he. “When called upon to speak, you will find your words with difficulty enough. Sir, I am waiting for an answer from you.” “But, uncle, he is nothing to me;—the gentleman is nothing to me!” “By the heavens above us, he shall be something, or I will know the reason why! What! he has gone off with you; he has travelled through the country with you, hiding you from your only natural friend; he has been your companion for weeks—” “Six days, sir,” said I. “Sir!” said the baronet, again giving me the lie. “And now,” he continued, addressing his niece, “you tell me that he is nothing to you. He shall give me his promise that he will make you his wife at the consulate at Alexandria, or I will destroy him. I know who he is.” “If you know who I am,” said I, “you must know—” But he would not listen to me. “And as for you, madam, unless he makes me that promise—” And then he paused in his threat, and, turning round, looked me in the face. I saw that she also was looking at me, though not openly as he did; and some flattering devil that was at work round my heart, would have persuaded that she also would have heard a certain answer given without dismay,—would even have received comfort in her agony from such an answer. But the reader knows how completely that answer was out of my power. “I have not the slightest ground for supposing,” said I, “that the lady would accede to such an arrangement,—if it were possible. My acquaintance with her has been altogether confined to—. To tell the truth, I have not been in Miss Weston’s confidence, and have only taken her for that which she has seemed to be.” “Sir!” said the baronet, again looking at me as though he would wither me on the spot for my falsehood. “It is true!” said Julia, getting up from her seat, and appealing with clasped hands to her uncle—“as true as Heaven.” “Madam!” said he, “do you both take me for a fool?” “That you should take me for one,” said I, “would be very natural. The facts are as we state to you. Miss Weston,—as I now learn that she is,—did me the honour of calling at my hotel, having heard—” And then it seemed to me as though I were attempting to screen myself by telling the story against her, so I was again silent. Never in my life had I been in a position of such extraordinary difficulty. The duty which I owed to Julia as a woman, and to Sir William as a guardian, and to myself as the father of a family, all clashed with each other. I was anxious to be generous, honest, and prudent, but it was impossible; so I made up my mind to say nothing further. “Mr. Jones,” said the baronet, “I have explained to you the only arrangement which under the present circumstances I can permit to pass without open exposure and condign punishment. That you are a gentleman by birth, education, and position I am aware,”—whereupon I raised my hat, and then he continued: “That lady has three hundred a year of her own—”