"It is, ma'am," said Mr. Binney. "I am aware of that. This sort of thing _must_ be sudden at some time or another, if it is to result in bus--I mean if anything is to come of it. I don't wish to press you for an answer yet. I merely wish to lay my ideas before you. I might say that I wish to marry again in order to obtain those advantages which--er--which _come_ from marrying again. I might say that I want an agreeable companion to sit at the head of my table, to entertain me with her society in my leisure hours, and to act in the capacity of mother to my only son. I do want that, but that is not all. I have worked hard all my life, ma'am, and am now a comparatively rich man. But I have had very little pleasure in my life. I married my first wife to please _her_. I want to marry my second to please _myself_. And I want above all to impart into the affair some of that--er--_glamour_, which, in my opinion, should envelop all courtship. I therefore come to you, ma'am, an agreeable and charming woman, and ask you, not to accept me as a man of good position able to offer you a comfortable home, which I am aware you have already, but as a man who, although no longer young, is younger than a good many people, and who loves you for yourself alone, and would like to take an opportunity of proving it." Could Mrs. Higginbotham believe her ears? If Peter Binney had asked her to marry him in the way he had suggested, and scouted, she would have accepted him with a sigh for lost illusions now no longer tenable. But it really seemed as if that romance for which the poor lady had so longed was going to be opened up for her, and an ardent swain, in the person of Peter Binney, Manufacturer of Poultry Food, was ready to throw himself at her feet and plead for her favour. Mrs. Higginbotham could scarcely yet grasp the happiness that seemed to be dawning on her horizon. "Do you really love me for myself, Mr. Binney?" she asked with faltering lips. "Say Peter," corrected Mr. Binney. "Peter," said Mrs. Higginbotham submissively, with a delicious thrill. "Yes, I do," said that gentleman. "But I don't want you to accept me in a hurry, you know," he added hastily. "I want you to try me, to prove me, to see what I'm made of." He slapped his little breast with a determined air, and looked round the room as if in search of some object by means of which he might be proved on the spot.