“You will? Again I say you are bold.” “For Heaven’s sake let us argue the matter out quietly.” “There is nothing whatever to argue. You say you love me. I do not return your love, therefore I cannot marry you. Are not those words plain enough?” “Plain as they are, they do not clinch this business,” said the man, now trembling with rage and suppressed passion. “I will plead my cause and you must listen. What I feel for you is more than ordinary love; it has been the growth of years. Do you think just for a light word I will give you up? I should make you a good husband. As to your mother, I know well what money difficulties she is in, but I can put her straight. I am a young man—not like Lord Selwyn.” “Do not mention his name.” “I must, for report gives you to him. I only say now what is the common talk of London. I am a young man, and not in the least like Selwyn. I hate a girl giving herself to an old man, but I am young and suitable as regards age. I am clever, too, and doing splendidly in my profession. Already I am considered one of the greatest brain specialists of the day. By and by I shall be a rich man. Already I am anything but poor. I can put your mother’s affairs quite straight, and I will if only you will promise to be mine.” “I do not love you, and therefore I cannot promise to be yours. Now, please, let me go.” “Not yet, not for a moment. Your love will come. Promise to marry me, if not for my sake, for your mother’s. Oh, Barbara, Miss Evershed—it does not matter what I call you—you will never repent it. If you were my wife, I should be a good man. I do not pretend that I am good now; I am just a desperate fellow, but full of love for you. Have you not been the star which I have set before me since I was a lad? Say you will marry me; say it—you will never regret it. If you do not there will be mischief. Oh, Barbara, do not give me up. Barbara, I shall go down, I shall sink, I shall be ruined, if you refuse me.” He paused at last, looking, with his eyes burning with suppressed passion, into the girl’s face. She did not shrink from his gaze, but she changed her position. Some of the soft golden light fell across her dress and on her white arms, and gave a queer glow to the big fan. Barbara unfurled it slowly, and held it so as partly to hide her face. “I am sorry for you,” she said; “you must try and get over this. But you have had my answer; I cannot say anything different.” “Do not refuse me now. Think, consider, take time. I cannot, I cannot give you up to another.” There was such a genuine tone of agony in the man’s voice that, in spite of herself, the girl was slightly softened; her tone became gentle.