Magdalen hurriedly tore off the little red shawl and returned to the morning-room, and closed the door. It was a considerable effort to her to close it, and by doing so to invite a renewal of Lord Lossiemouth's offer. But it could not be left open. "It was not poor Mr. Thomson's fault," she said, "but I wish I could have saved you this annoyance." He struggled to recover his temper. Her quivering face shewed him that she was suffering from the miserable accident of the interruption even more than he was. "I was asking you to marry me," he said with courage, but with visible irritation. "Will you?" "I am afraid I cannot." "I knew you would say that. I expected it. But I beg you to reconsider it, that is if--if your feeling for me is still unchanged." "It is unchanged." "Then why not marry me?" "Because you do not care for me." "I felt certain you would say that. But I _do_ care for you. Should I be here if I did not? We are two middle-aged people, Magdalen. The old raptures and roses would be out of place, but I have always cared for you. Surely you know that. Have you forgotten the old days?" "No." "Neither have I. All we have to do is to forget the years between." As he spoke he felt that the thing could hardly have been better put. "I have no wish to forget them." He had made a great effort to control his temper, but he found her unreasonable. His anger got the upper hand. "It is one of two things that makes you refuse me. Either you can't forgive me, and I daresay I don't deserve that you should, I am not posing as a faultless character--or you have ceased to love me. Which is it?" "I have not ceased to love you," she replied. "Have I not just told you so? But you would find yourself miserable in the--lop-sided kind of marriage which you are contemplating. It is unwise to try to make bricks without straw." "Then if your mind was so absolutely made up beforehand to refuse me, why was I sent for?" he stammered, white with anger. He struck the table with his hand. "What was the use of urging me to come back, if I was to meet with a frigid, elegantly expressed, deliberately planned rebuff directly I set foot in the house!" "Why were you _sent for_?" she said aghast. "Surely you came of your own accord. _Sent for!_ _Who_ sent for you?" She sat down feebly. A horrible suspicion turned her faint. "_Who_ sent for me?" he said venomously. "Why am I here?" He tore some letters out of his pocket, and thrust them into her hands. Always sensitive to a slight, he was infuriated by the low cunning, the desire to humiliate him, with which he imagined he had been treated. Others could be humiliated as well as himself. "Read them," he said savagely, and he walked away from her, and stood by the window with his back to her. Magdalen read them slowly, the three letters, her father's, Aunt Mary's, Aunt Aggie's. Then she put them back into their envelopes and wiped the sweat from her forehead.