“I am glad to see you again—to thank you,” she murmured. But while her blushes and her downcast eyes seemed propitious to his suit, there was something—was it, could it be a covert smile hiding at the corners of her little mouth?—some change in her which oppressed him, and which he did not understand. One thing he did understand, however: that she was more beautiful, more desirable, more intoxicating than he had pictured her. And his apprehensions grew upon him, as he paused tongue-tied, worshipping her with his eyes. If, after all, she would not? What if she said, “No”? For what, now he came to measure them beside her, were those things he brought her, those things he came to offer, that career which he was going to ask her to share? What were they beside her adorable beauty and her modesty, the candour of her maiden eyes, the perfection of her form? He saw their worthlessness; and the bold phrase with which he had meant to open his suit, the confident, “Mary, I am come for you,” which he had repeated so often to the rhythm of the chaise-wheels, that he was sure he would never forget it, died on his lips. At last, “You speak of thanks—it is to gain your thanks I am come,” he said nervously. “But I don’t ask for words. I want you to think as—as highly as you can of what I did for you—if you please! I want you to believe that I saved your life on the coach. I want you to think that I did it at great risk to myself. I want you,” he continued hurriedly, “to exaggerate a hundredfold—everything I did for you. And then I want you to think that you owe all to a miser, who will be content with nothing short of—of immense interest, of an extortionate return.” “I don’t think that I understand,” she answered in a low tone, her cheeks glowing. But beyond that, he could not tell aught of her feelings; she kept her eyes lowered so that he could not read them, and there were, even in the midst of her shyness, an ease and an aloofness in her bearing, which were new to him and which frightened him. He remembered how quickly she had on other occasions put him in his place; how coldly she had asserted herself. Perhaps, she had no feeling for him. Perhaps, apart from the incident in the coach, she even disliked him! “You do not understand,” he said unsteadily, “what is the return I want?” “No-o,” she faltered. He stood up abruptly, and took a pace or two from her. “And I hardly dare tell you,” he said. “I hardly dare tell you. I came to you, I came here as brave as a lion. And now, I don’t know why, I am frightened.” She—astonishing thing!—leapt the gulf for him. Possibly the greater distance at which he stood gave her courage. “Are you afraid,” she murmured, moving her fingers restlessly, and watching them, “that you may change your mind again?” “Change my mind?” he ejaculated, not for the moment understanding her. So much had happened since his collision with Flixton in the Square. “As that gentleman—said you were in the habit of doing.” “Ah!”