This, however, proved not to be true. At the unsolicited tribute Edwin's young breast swelled with the desire to make a heroic gesture. He thought of the duty that the strong owe to the weak; visions of gallant men and kneeling beggar-maids floated cloudily in his brain; he drew himself up, and strove for his most resonant chest-notes as he said gravely: "Please don't say anything more, Dora. You will make me very happy if you will consent to be my wife." It was a magnificent gesture and it had its instant reward. "No, no," cried Dora through her tears, "I couldn't take advantage of your kindness; you don't mean it; it's only that you're so good." This protest, these doubts hazarded as to his resolution, only served to intensify it, the more so as the sound of his own voice making its formal proposal had struck chill upon Edwin's heart. "You wrong me," he protested. "Indeed I mean it; it will make me very happy if your answer is yes." Dora had lived her moment; she had flung away weapons and armour and renounced her hopes. It had been an impulse and she was incapable of carrying it to a conclusion of sustained unselfishness. She knew that Edwin did not love her and that the whole situation was false and garish, but the chance was too good to be let slip. "Oh, Edwin," she gasped, "indeed it is yes," and then relapsed into further sobbing. Edwin too had had his moment, but his was no isolated detachable fragment of his life. The results of it had closed on him like a trap; all that he could do was to follow up the line of conduct imposed on him by his own act. He put his arm round Dora, and kissed her gently. "My dear," he urged, "don't cry any more. Please try not to; it does upset me to see you, and surely everything will be all right now. Let's sit down on the bank and discuss things. "I'm only crying because I'm so happy," said Dora attempting to dry her tears. "It's all so wonderful. Mother and Father will be so pleased." Edwin was conscious of a tremor of disgust at the thought of Mrs. Pilkington, but Dora seemed to have forgotten the prelude of frankness which had led to his proposal. "Will Mr. and Mrs. Greene mind your getting engaged to me?" she asked tentatively, and Edwin's doubts were lulled by pleasure in her humility and dependence, and in his own protectiveness. "They won't interfere," he assured her stoutly. "Mother will say I'm too young and we must wait a little and are we sure we know our own minds and so on, but Father won't take any part. He never does; he says everyone must buy their own experience." At his own careless words, Edwin again felt chilled and dismayed; he was buying his so dear, at the cost perhaps of all his future happiness. Suddenly in a fever of impatience to make it irrevocable and be quit of doubts and tremors, he dragged Dora to her feet.