“Mr. Tredethlyn, on _my_ honour, I know the world better than you do. If you had devoted yourself to any other woman in this house, to any daughter of that mercantile aristocracy in which Mr. Hillary rules supreme, no sneering comments would have greeted your ear. But what am I--the daughter of the Desmonds of Desmond--amongst these people? What am I but Maude Hillary’s dependant and companion? I am poor, and I endure poverty in its most cruel bitterness; for I am poor amongst the vulgar rich. Who can give me credit for sincerity? who dare trust in my friendship? I am a well-bred pauper, a fortune-huntress, an adventuress, a creature whose smiles are to be dreaded, whose society is to be avoided. O Francis Tredethlyn,” cried Julia, with a sudden shiver of agony, which would have done credit to a Rachel, “_I know so well_ what has been said to you. Go--go at once. You are wise to accept the warning conveyed in these people’s insolent insinuations. Go--there is a gulf between you and me, for you are rich and I am poor. Beware of me even when I seem most sincere. Remember that I am a pauper, and the descendant of paupers--paupers who shed their blood and squandered their fortunes in a losing cause; paupers who died for the love of honour and loyalty, two words that would seem the emptiest sounds to merchants and tradesmen. Oh, Mr. Tredethlyn, have pity upon me, and go.” And then Miss Desmond broke down all at once into a burst of hysterical sobbing, and stretching out her hand towards the back of a _prie-dieu_ chair standing near her, tottered as if she would have fallen. She did not fall, however; for before her hand could reach the _prie-dieu_, Francis Tredethlyn’s strong arm was round her. “Miss Desmond,” he cried, “Julia! why do you talk like this? Do you think that any base thought about you ever entered _my_ brain? Fortune-huntress, adventuress--did I ever wrong you in my inmost thoughts by such a name as that?” “No,” answered Julia, softly. “_You_ are too noble; and yet you may have been influenced by others. Why should you think better of me than others think? Why should not you too despise me?” Her voice was broken by sobs, and she was still supported by Mr. Tredethlyn’s arm. He felt that she was trembling violently. He could just distinguish her handsome profile in the dusk, and the tears glittering upon her dark lashes. “Despise you, Julia! you who are so superior to me! Do you forget what I am? Have I not much greater reason to fear your contempt? And you talk of poverty, as if that were so deep a suffering, while I am so rich, and care so little for my money. Share it with me, Julia. I’m only a poor waif and stray as it is; but with such a woman as you for my wife I might be of some good in the world. Heaven knows you are welcome to my fortune, Miss Desmond. If you were a man, and my comrade, I would say, Share it with me as my brother and my friend. But you are a woman, and I can only say, Be my wife.”