“Then we will not talk about it.” Suddenly he looked at her; there was no change in his tone, but he opened his eyes a little wider as if to impress upon her the importance of his next words. “We don’t wish our private affairs made known to the world,” he said. “There is no necessity to talk of them at all; they are of no importance except to ourselves. We don’t wish to talk about them or to hear of their being talked about. Will you remember this, Mrs. Hibbert?” It was quite a relief to get three consecutive sentences out of him. “But, Mr. Wimple, do tell me that, if you persist in marrying her, you will make her happy, you will be good to her, and—that you can keep her in some sort of comfort,” Florence said in despair. “I will talk to her about this, Mrs. Hibbert. It is her affair,” he said solemnly; and Florence felt altogether worsted, left out in the cold, put back, and powerless. She sat silently by the fire, not knowing what to do or say. Mr. Wimple made no sign. She looked up at him after a minute or two. What could Aunt Anne see to like in him, in his dull eyes, his thin lips, his straggling sandy hair and whiskers, his pink-and-white, yet unhealthy-looking complexion? He met her gaze steadily. “Is there anything more you wish to say to me?” he asked; “I have not much time.” “No,” she answered, chokingly, “there is nothing—if you would only be a son to her, a friend, anything, rather than marry her. Oh, Mr. Wimple, if you really do care for her, don’t make her ridiculous in her old age, don’t make her unhappy. Happiness cannot come of an absurd marriage like this. You ought to marry a girl, a young woman. One day Walter and I saw you at Waterloo——” He fixed his eyes upon her, and there was a slight look of curiosity in them now, but he was absolutely calm. “Well, Mrs. Hibbert?” he said. “We thought that perhaps she was—was some one you liked; she was young, it would have been much more suitable.” “I must know what I desire, and what is most suitable for myself, Mrs. Hibbert,” he answered, without a shade of vexation, but with quiet determination in his voice. Then Jane, evidently to her own satisfaction, entered. “If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Baines says she would like to speak to Mr. Wimple when you have quite finished with him.” “Tell Mrs. Baines I will go up to her in a moment; I want to see her.” She turned to Mr. Wimple again when Jane had gone. He rose as if to signify that he considered their conversation at an end. “I fear there is nothing more to say,” she said lamely, for this man, with his silence and utter lack of response, had made every word that suggested itself seem weak and hopeless. “I think not, Mrs. Hibbert.” “But for your own happiness, Mr. Wimple,” she said suddenly, struck with a new way of putting it, “you surely can’t want to marry Mrs. Baines for the sake of your own happiness.”