“But you have bought me,” she said, in a low voice, “and you know it. You do not expect me to love you. You only wish me to be your wife, and you ask no questions----” He reddened; then turned pale. “I--I ask no questions,” he said, and his voice came huskily and heavily. “No, I am content. I--I don’t suppose I am the first man who’s made love to you. You’re too beautiful”--Olivia glanced at the glass curiously, as if at some other face--“too--too good a match for me to hope for that. But--I’ll chance all that.” “You will take the risk?” she said, in a low voice. Her words seemed to affect him strangely. He changed color, and darted a look of distrust and suspicion at her from his restless eyes. “What do you mean? What risk?” he said, nervously. She shook her head. “Risk of the future,” she said. “Does anything but unhappiness and misery spring from such a marriage as this would be?” He drew a breath--it almost seemed of relief. “Oh, as to that,” he said, “I am not uneasy. Why should we be unhappy with everything we want, everything that money can buy? It’s the people who are poor who are miserable and discontented. They have to pinch and screw and stick in one place; while we--you shall do as you like, go as you like. I’m fond of The Maples--because it’s near the Grange, and--and you; but if you don’t like it, I’ll buy another place for you anywhere. I think I told you that the other night; I know if I didn’t, I meant it. I spend all my time thinking how I can please you, and I will do it! What do you say? Let me have an answer. It--it isn’t fair, it isn’t like you, who are so kind and thoughtful always to--to other people, to keep me in suspense.” “No,” she said, as if to herself, “it is not fair. And I have made up my mind. I had made it up before I came into the room.” “You had?” he breathed, evidently in an agony of conflicting hope and fear. “Yes, Mr. Bradstone, I mean to accept your proposal if--if you would promise me the money.” He came forward with a half-fearful promptitude, and an inarticulate cry of satisfaction. “You say ‘Yes,’ Olivia! If I will promise you! Why, I’d lay every penny I possess at your feet this moment, if you wished it.” And he really quite believed his capacity for such a sacrifice. “Every penny. Oh, how happy you have made me!” He drew nearer, and timidly took her hand in both his, and fondled it with humble eagerness. And as she let her hand remain, there flashed through her mind, her heart, the passionate face of Harold Faradeane; there had been no timidity, no servility in his fierce caresses for the few short moments they lasted. She allowed him to hold her hand in his for a minute or so, then slowly withdrew it, and walked to the window. He followed her hesitatingly. “May I stay?” he asked. “No!” she said, not coldly, but with a terrible calmness. “I want to think--I would rather----”