But the baronet could not endure this. “By G—d, no!” he cried, infuriated by the other’s persistence, and perhaps a little by fear that the girl would give way. “You shall not soil her name with your lips, sir! You shall torture her no longer! You have your dismissal! Take it and go!” “When she tells me with her own lips to go,” Vaughan answered doggedly, “I will go. Not before!” For never had she seemed more desirable to him. Never, though contempt of her weakness wrestled with his love, had he wanted her more. Except that seat in the House which had cost him so dearly, she was all he had left. And it did not seem possible that she whom he had held so lately in his arms, she who had confessed her love for him, with whom he had vowed to share his life and his success, his lot good or bad—it did not seem possible that she could really believe this miserable, this incredible, this impossible thing of him! She could not! Or, if she could, he was indeed mistaken in her. “I shall go,” he repeated coldly, “and I shall not return.” And Mary had not believed it of him, had she known him longer or better; had she known him as girls commonly know their lovers. But his wooing had been short, we know: and we know, too, the distrust of men in which she had been trained. He had taken her by storm, stooping to her from the height of his position, having on his side her poverty and loneliness, her inexperience and youth. Now all these things, and her ignorance of his world weighed against him. Was it to be supposed, could it be credited that he, who had come to her bearing her mother’s commendation, knew nothing, though he was her kinsman? That he, who after plain hesitation and avowed doubt, laid all at her feet as soon as her father was prepared to acknowledge her—still sought her in ignorance? That he, who had read her story in black and white, still knew nothing? No, she could not believe it. But it was a bitter thing to know that he did not love her, that he had not loved her! That he had come to her for gain! She must speak if it were only to escape, only to save herself from—from collapse. She yearned for nothing now so much as to be alone in her room. “Good-bye,” she muttered, with averted eyes and pallid lips. “I—I forgive you. Good-bye.” And she opened the door with groping fingers; and still, still looking away from him lest she should break down, she went out. He drew a deep breath as she passed the threshold; and his eyes did not leave her. But he did not speak. Nor did Sir Robert Vermuyden until his daughter’s step, light as thistledown that morning, and now uncertain and lagging, passed out of hearing, and—and at last a door closed on the floor above. Then the elder man looked at the other. “Are you not going?” he said with stern meaning. “You have robbed me of my borough, sir—I give you joy of your cleverness. But you shall not rob me of my daughter!”