“Yes, and he says that if—it suits us both, he is quite willing; that, in fact, he would be very pleased to see you so well provided for.” Stella could not say that she did not understand, the falsehood was too obvious. So she merely went on looking, a circumstance from which Mr. Layard drew false auguries. “You know what I mean, don’t you?” he jerked out. She shook her head. “I mean—I mean that I love you, that you have given me what this horrid thing was talking about just now—understanding to the heart; yes, that’s it, understanding to the heart. Will you marry me, Stella? I will make you a good husband, and it isn’t a bad place, and all that, and though your father says he has little to leave you, you will be treated as liberally as though you were a lady in your own right.” Stella smiled a little. “Will you marry me?” he asked again. “I am afraid that I must answer no, Mr. Layard.” Then the poor man broke out into a rhapsody of bitter disappointment, genuine emotion, and passionate entreaty. “It is no use, Mr. Layard,” said Stella at last. “Indeed, I am much obliged to you. You have paid me a great compliment, but it is not possible that I should become your wife, and the sooner that is clear the better for us both.” “Are you engaged?” he asked. “No, Mr. Layard; and probably I never shall be. I have my own ideas about matrimony, and the conditions under which I would undertake it are not at all likely ever to be within my reach.” Again he implored,—for at the time this woman really held his heart,—wringing his hands, and, indeed, weeping in the agony of a repulse which was the more dreadful because it was quite unexpected. He had scarcely imagined that this poor clergyman’s daughter, who had little but her looks and a sweet voice, would really refuse the best match for twenty miles round, nor had his conversation with her father suggested to his mind any such idea. It was true that Mr. Fregelius had given him no absolute encouragement; he had said that personally the marriage would be very pleasing to himself, but that it was a matter of which Stella must judge; and when asked whether he would speak to his daughter, he had emphatically declined. Still, Stephen Layard had taken this to be all a part of the paternal formula, and rejoiced, thinking the matter as good as settled. Dreadful indeed, then, was it to him when he found that he was called upon to contemplate the dull obverse of his shield of faith, and not its bright and shining face, in which he had seen mirrored so clear a picture of perfect happiness. So he begged on piteously enough, till at last Stella was forced to stop him by saying as gently as she could: “Please spare us both, Mr. Layard; I have given my answer, and I am sorry to say that it is impossible for me to go back upon my word.” Then a sudden fury seized him.