“Such persons would, merely to bring me nearer to themselves, wish me to become poor; for which I should not thank them. I set great store by the esteem my riches command, Lucian. It is the only set-off I have against the envy they inspire.” “Then you would refuse to believe in the disinterestedness of any man who--who--” “Who wanted to marry me? On the contrary: I should be the last person to believe that a man could prefer my money to myself. If he wore independent, and in a fair way to keep his place in the world without my help, I should despise him if he hesitated to approach me for fear of misconstruction. I do not think a man is ever thoroughly honest until he is superior to that fear. But if he had no profession, no money, and no aim except to live at my expense, then I should regard him as an adventurer, and treat him as one--unless I fell in love with him.” “Unless you fell in love with him!” “That--assuming that such things really happen--would make a difference in my feeling, but none in my conduct. I would not marry an adventurer under any circumstances. I could cure myself of a misdirected passion, but not of a bad husband.” Lucian said nothing; he walked on with long, irregular steps, lowering at the pavement as if it were a difficult problem, and occasionally thrusting at it with his stick. At last he looked up, and said, “Would you mind prolonging your walk a little by going round Bedford Square with me? I have something particular to say.” She turned and complied without a word; and they had traversed one side of the square before he spoke again, in these terms: “On second thoughts, Lydia, this is neither the proper time nor place for an important communication. Excuse me for having taken you out of your way for nothing.” “I do not like this, Lucian. Important communications--in this case--corrupt good manners. If your intended speech is a sensible one, the present is as good a time, and Bedford Square as good a place, as you are likely to find for it. If it is otherwise, confess that you have decided to leave it unsaid. But do not postpone it. Reticence is always an error--even on the treasury bench. It is doubly erroneous in dealing with me; for I have a constitutional antipathy to it.” “Yes,” he said, hurriedly; “but give me one moment--until the policeman has passed.” The policeman went leisurely by, striking the flags with his heels, and slapping his palm with a white glove. “The fact is, Lydia, that--I feel great difficulty--” “What is the matter?” said Lydia, after waiting in vain for further particulars. “You have broken down twice in a speech.” There was a pause. Then she looked at him quickly, and added, incredulously, “Are you going to get married? Is that the secret that ties your practised tongue?” “Not unless you take part in the ceremony.”