“Why will you talk about loving and marrying me?” she asked, a little peevishly; and then instantly changing her tone, and letting me look down deep into her eyes, she said, “How do you know I will ever marry you?” “I’ll _make_ you love me.” “Don’t speak so fiercely. You quite frighten me.” “Oh, Conny, for God’s sake don’t jest with my feelings,” I groaned. “You want people to love you at first sight.” “PEOPLE!!” “You promised that you wouldn’t speak to me about--about your feelings again until I gave you leave.” “And I’d have kept my word, if your father hadn’t told me he would not sanction our marriage.” “I should hope he wouldn’t sanction it yet.” “How can you talk like that? But I didn’t ask him to sanction it. In fact, I don’t remember speaking about our marriage. He wanted me to make love to Theresa, and I told him that was impossible, because I was in love with you. And I shall always consider--fond as I am of him--that he spoke to me rather heartlessly.” “Why do you object to do what he wants?” she inquired, with a slight raising of the eyebrows, which was peculiar to her, and which made a complete conundrum of the expression that her face might happen to wear. “Why do you ask? You know.” “Have you heard that she is very pretty?” “There is only one pretty woman in the world, and her name is Conny.” She could not help looking pleased; a bright colour came into her face, and she was silent. When I peeped at her again, the colour had faded, and she was as pensive and down-looking as any nun. “Conny,” I whispered, in my softest voice, “if you will only tell me you love me, and will consent to marry me, your father must give way. The decision that is to make me supremely happy or supremely miserable rests with you, not with him.” “Charlie,” she answered, in a voice a very great deal softer than mine, “you must give me time. Some of these days I may be able to answer you decisively; but you must never talk of _making_ me love you, for if I don’t turn to you naturally, I shall never turn to you at all. Besides, you ought to see Theresa. You might like her better than me----” “Oh! oh!” “You might find her a far more suitable wife than ever I could make you, and might think her infinitely prettier.” “I _might_ become a king. I _might_ take the moon out of the sky, and put it in my pocket. And I mightn’t.” “At all events I am determined not to hear another word from you until you have seen her. You must be tried a little before I make up my mind. The old saying is, ‘no man can be considered honest until he has been tempted.’” “If that is your opinion of me,” said I, “it is quite right that I should go to Thistlewood. I want to be tested. I only hope that I may find Theresa perfectly beautiful, and thoroughly womanly, and brilliantly clever, and superfine in every point, to prove that, compared to you, she will be no more to me than that bush.” “Very well; and now, not another word until you come back. Give me your word.”