The contrast between the old lady's dainty correctness of attire and speech, and the extraordinary unconventionality of her proposal, made Michael's brain reel. She turned from the window, again looked him fairly in the eyes, and said: "You will not find me unconventional in other matters. This is purely an affair of business, and I approach it in a business spirit. You would be giving a home to one who wants it, and I should be helping you to what you need still more. I have never been married. I never wished to marry; and when I am dead---- Don't look so horror-stricken. I should not die any sooner because you--you had married me. My name is Thrale--Frances Thrale. That is my card that you have been pulling to pieces while you have been talking to me. Shall I come and see you again at this time to-morrow? It is not a subject on which I should wish either to write or to receive letters." He could only acquiesce. At the door the old lady turned. "If you think I look so old as to make your marriage too absurd," she said--and now, for the first time, her voice trembled--"I could dye my hair." "Oh no," Michael said, "your hair is beautiful. Good-bye, and thank you." As the old lady went down the dusty Temple stairs she stamped a small foot angrily on the worn oak. "Fool!" she said, "how could you? Hateful, shameless, unwomanly! And it's all for nothing, too. He'll never do it. It's _too_ mad!" Michael went straight to Sylvia, and told his tale. "And I felt I couldn't," he said; "she is the daintiest, sweetest little old lady. I couldn't marry her and see her every day and live in the hope of her death." "I don't see why not," Sylvia said, a little coldly. "She wouldn't die any sooner because you married her, and, anyway, she can't have long to live." The words were almost those of the little old lady herself. Yet--or perhaps for that very reason--they jarred on Michael's mood. He alleged business, and cut short his call. Next day Miss Thrale called again. Mr Wood was sorry to have given her so much trouble. He had decided that the idea was too wild, and must be abandoned. "Is it because I am too old?" said the old lady wistfully; "would you marry me if I were young?" "Upon my word, I believe I would," Michael surprised himself by saying. That it was not the answer Miss Thrale expected was evident from her smile of sudden amusement. "May I say," she said, "in return for what, in its way, is a compliment, that I like you very much. I would take care of you, and I shall perhaps not live more than a year or two."