“You have?” he replied, in a tone of great relief. “And--and, may I venture to hope?” “I really cannot tell you. But I see no reason why you should not,” she returned reassuringly. “Madeline”--now moving his chair a whole foot nearer, and suddenly taking her hand--“you have made me the happiest of men!” “I don’t think I quite understand you,” she replied, struggling to withdraw her fingers, and feeling desperately uncomfortable. “Then I must speak out more plainly. I want you to promise to be my wife.” For a second she stared at him as if she could not credit her ears. Then she suddenly wrenched her fingers away, sprang to her feet, and stood facing him with crimson cheeks. “What do you mean? Are you--mad?” she asked sharply. “Mad?--no!” replied her suitor, both amazed and affronted. “One would think I was a dangerous lunatic, the way you behave. I am quite sane, and in deadly earnest. I have your father’s good wishes, Rachel’s good wishes----” “My father’s good wishes!” she interrupted, her mind in a perfect tumult at this totally unlooked-for dilemma. “What is the matter with you, Miss West? Why are you so upset and agitated? Am I so totally unworthy? Is there anything so extravagantly strange in my wishing to marry you?” “Oh no, no!”--endeavouring to control her feelings, and not give herself away. “But--but----” A scarlet wave rushed into her cheeks. But what would Laurence say? “Is it to be ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?” he pleaded. She simply shook her head, and drew back a step or two. He had never been so near to loving this tall pretty girl, standing under the lime-trees with flushed, averted face, as now, when she shook her head. “At least you will give me _reason_,” he demanded, rather sulkily. As the words left his lips he saw an odd change pass across her face, an expression that he could not understand. It was a look half of fear, half of contemptuous derision. “There is no reason,” she answered quietly, “beyond the usual one in a similar case. I do not wish to marry you.” “And why?” he asked, after an appreciable pause. “Well, really, I have never thought about you, Lord Anthony, but as a pleasant acquaintance. As an acquaintance I like you very much,” she answered, with astounding calmness. “An acquaintance--but nothing more.” And she turned to take up her parasol. Opposition always roused Lord Anthony; it acted as a spur. In a short five minutes he saw everything from his sister’s point of view, and had suddenly developed a passion for Miss West. “Every marriage begins by an acquaintance. Perhaps in time,” he urged--“in a few short months, my dearest Madeline----” “I am not your ‘dearest Madeline,’ Lord Anthony,” she interrupted quickly. “Pray consider the subject closed once for all; and remember, for the future, that I am Miss West.” She was getting angry with his persistency. He was getting angry with her persistency. There ensued a long silence, unbroken by speech. And at last he said--