'No, papa, I have no interest in the matter,' replied Alison, faintly. '"She has always permitted me to take the place of a friend--better than I merited," he writes, "but that has been from the innate goodness of her heart, on which I know that I have no right to found the expectations that have drawn forth this letter." Very well expressed indeed,' added Sir Ranald, eyeing the missive through his _pince-nez_, 'and he winds up so nicely about your beauty and the wealth he can lay at your feet, and so forth.' 'And so, papa, I am to deem my face my fortune?' said Alison, still endeavouring to make light of the matter. 'Not alone.' 'What more is there, then?' 'You are a Cheyne of Essilmont.' 'How ridiculous of this man, who is old enough to be my father! And so, papa, this is my first proposal?' 'Your first, how many do you expect--you a penniless lass?' 'With a long pedigree.' 'Yes,' replied her father, with growing irritation, 'how many do you expect of any kind, as society goes now-a-days? Consider this well--or why consider at all?--but accept his offer for your own sake and mine.' 'But without love, papa?' said the girl, softly. 'You can't live on that, like the æsthetic bride in Punch, on her teapot,' exclaimed Sir Ranald. 'In asking you to marry him, I rather ask you to marry his house in Belgravia, his place here in Hampshire, his equipages, and family jewels, as I suppose he calls them.' 'Oh, papa,' said Alison, proudly and reproachfully, 'is it you, Cheyne of Essilmont, who suggest this to me?' 'Yes--I, Cheyne of Essilmont and that ilk--the bankrupt and the beggar,' he replied, with a burst of impressible bitterness. 'Papa, how can you, so proud of race, go in for vulgar mammon worship so unblushingly?' 'My poverty, but not my will, consents.' 'I thought daughters were sold only in Circassia.' 'Not at all, they sell too in Tyburnia and Belgravia to the highest bidder, and surely with all he can give you, all that he can surround us with, you might be able to tolerate him as a husband.' But Alison could only think of Bevil Goring, and interlaced her fingers tightly beneath the tablecloth. 'There is nothing in this world like riches,' exclaimed Sir Ranald, glancing at the unopened blue envelopes, and tightening the silk cords of his sorely frayed dressing-gown. 'What riches give us let us first inquire.' 'Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire,' said Alison, with a sickly smile. 'Alison--Miss Cheyne,' said her father, with increasing asperity. 'This offer of marriage is a serious matter, and not to be dismissed thus, by a quip or apt quotation.' 'You admit that it is apt?' 'I admit nothing--save that Cadbury has talked this matter over with me before.' 'I suspected as much,' said Alison, bitterly.