‘You can give in, my dear, you can give in,’ repeated the lawyer. ‘No use for entering into particulars. So long as you authorise me to say you give in--that is all, I am sure, that is needful. Don’t turn me off, Anne--give me the pleasure of reconciling you, my dear.’ Mr. Loseby had always given himself out as one of Anne’s adorers. His eyes glistened with the moisture in them. He pressed her arm within his. ‘Come, my dear! I never was a father myself, which I have always regretted; but I have known you all your life. Let me do you a good turn--let me put a stop to all this nonsense, and tell him you will make it up.’ Anne’s heart had sunk very low; with one assault of this kind after another she was altogether discouraged. She did not seem to care what she said, or what interpretation was put upon her words. ‘You may say what you please,’ she said. ‘I will make it up, if you please: but what does that mean, Mr. Loseby? I will give up writing, if he wishes it--but how can I give up the--gentleman I am engaged to? Do you think I want to quarrel? Oh, no, no--but what can I do? Give up!--I have no right. He has my promise and I have his. Can I sell that for money?’ cried Anne, indignantly. ‘I will do whatever papa pleases--except that.’ ‘You are making him do a dreadful injustice, Anne. Come, what does this young fellow say? Does he not want to release you, to save you from suffering? does he hold you to your promise in the face of such a loss? An honourable young man would tell you: never mind me----’ Anne detached her arm with a little energy from his. ‘Why should you torment me?’ she cried. ‘An honourable man?--is it honour, then, to prefer, as you said yourself, one’s money to one’s life?’ ‘My dear child, money is always there, it is always to be relied upon; it is a strong back, whatever happens--whereas this, that you call life----!’ cried Mr. Loseby, spreading out his hands and lifting up his eyebrows; he had chosen the very image she had herself used when writing to her lover. Was this then what they all thought, that wealth was the best thing to fall back upon? She smiled, but it was a smile of pain. ‘If I thought so, I should not care either for the life or the money,’ she said. Mr. Loseby held up his hands once more. He shook his shining little bald head, and took up his blue bag from the table. ‘You are as obstinate, as pig-headed, the whole family of you--one worse than another,’ he said. CHAPTER XVIII. AFTERTHOUGHTS.