‘Well, then,’ said the cool and self-contained lady, ‘before I go farther, I may ask you, knowing what you have forced me to confess, are you still of the same mind as to marriage? And one moment, General. I promise you most sincerely that your withdrawing a step shall not, as far as it touches me, affect my neighbourly and friendly sentiments; not in any degree. Shall we be as we were?’ Lady Camper extended her delicate hand to him. He took it respectfully, inspected the aristocratic and unshrunken fingers, and kissing them, said, ‘I never withdraw from a position, unless I am beaten back. Lady Camper, I...’ ‘My name is Angela.’ The General tried again: he could not utter the name. To call a lady of seventy Angela is difficult in itself. It is, it seems, thrice difficult in the way of courtship. ‘Angela!’ said she. ‘Yes. I say, there is not a more beautiful female name, dear Lady Camper.’ ‘Spare me that word “female” as long as you live. Address me by that name, if you please.’ The General smiled. The smile was meant for propitiation and sweetness. It became a brazen smile. ‘Unless you wish to step back,’ said she. ‘Indeed, no. I am happy, Lady Camper. My life is yours. I say, my life is devoted to you, dear madam.’ ‘Angela!’ General Ople was blushingly delivered of the name. ‘That will do,’ said she. ‘And as I think it possible one may be admired too much as an artist, I must request you to keep my number of years a secret.’ ‘To the death, madam,’ said the General. ‘And now we will take a turn in the garden, Wilson Ople. And beware of one thing, for a commencement, for you are full of weeds, and I mean to pluck out a few: never call any place a gentlemanly residence in my hearing, nor let it come to my ears that you have been using the phrase elsewhere. Don’t express astonishment. At present it is enough that I dislike it. But this only,’ Lady Camper added, ‘this only if it is not your intention to withdraw from your position.’ ‘Madam, my lady, I was saying--hem!--Angela, I could not wish to withdraw.’ Lady Camper leaned with some pressure on his arm, observing, ‘You have a curious attachment to antiquities.’ ‘My dear lady, it is your mind; I say, it is your mind: I was saying, I am in love with your mind,’ the General endeavoured to assure her, and himself too. ‘Or is it my powers as an artist?’ ‘Your mind, your extraordinary powers of mind.’ ‘Well,’ said Lady Camper, ‘a veteran General of Brigade is as good a crutch as a childless old grannam can have.’ And as a crutch, General Ople, parading her grounds with the aged woman, found himself used and treated. The accuracy of his perceptions might be questioned. He was like a man stunned by some great tropical fruit, which responds to the longing of his eyes by falling on his head; but it appeared to him, that she increased in bitterness at every step they took, as if determined to make him realize her wrinkles.