"_I_ don't," said the younger lady. "He is a man of the world, he is alive to his own interests; but still, Gertrude, remember what we know as a fact--that at this moment, though it should ruin all his prospects for life, he is ready--more than ready, absurdly eager to marry me. So we mustn't count too much on his worldly wisdom, cool-headed and experienced in such matters as he seems. Certainly, contradiction may have had a good deal to do with the growth and continuance of his feelings for me. There is that to be considered; and knowing that, I was idiotic enough to try to warn him." "To warn him! Oh, Roma; do you mean that there is some one already that he would ever really think of seriously?" asked Mrs Eyrecourt, with great anxiety. "Not exactly that--at least, not as yet," replied Roma. "What I mean is, that if I succeeded, as I could easily, if it came to the point, in quite convincing him he must altogether give up thoughts of me, he would be very likely to do worse--or more foolishly, at least. I have no doubt the girl is as good as she is pretty--I was taken by her myself-- but utterly, completely unsuited to him in every single respect. And for this reason, Gertrude, I was very civil to Beauchamp at the end: I let him come to the station to see me off--we parted most affectionately. I wanted to do away with the bad effects of my warning, which I feared had offended him deeply the night before. But after all, perhaps, the warning was rather encouraging to his vain hopes than otherwise. I do believe he thought I was jealous." She smiled at the recollection. "The worst of it is," she went on, "if he thinks so, it will probably lead to his flirting all the more desperately, in hopes of my hearing of it. And then if it comes to my being driven into formally refusing him, what shall I do when he comes to us in February? He told me he is to have six weeks then. And he will go back to Wareborough again after that. Oh dear, oh dear, it is all dreadfully plain to my prophetic vision." "Roma, do be serious. You don't mean to say--you can't mean, that this girl, whoever she is, is a _Wareborough_ girl. Wareborough!" with supreme contempt, "Why, we all thought your cousin, Mary Pevensey, throwing herself away when she married Henry Dalrymple, though he didn't exactly belong to Wareborough, and was so rich. By-the-bye, this girl may be rich; not that that would reconcile me to it," with a sigh.