Until that day--until he had seen her moved by the sense of her own loneliness, until he had seen the tears start into her eyes--he had not said even to himself that he loved her. He told himself over and over again that he would risk his prospects, his life, his honour for her. How his prospects or life could be imperilled he did not know, did not care. He had a modest fortune of his own, and her husband had left her the bulk of his great wealth. He would have preferred her poor rather than rich. But if she would marry him, he would not allow the fact that she had money to stand in the way of his happiness. She had for a while, owing to circumstances in which no blame attached to her, found herself labouring under a hideous suspicion. From the shadow of that suspicion she had emerged without blemish. She had been cruelly ill-used by fate, but it had been shown she was blameless. Where, then, could danger to his honour lie? Her beauty was undeniable; her family unexceptionable. She had been sold to an old man by a venal lover. In this lurked no disgrace to her. What could his father or mother find in her to object to? Nothing--absolutely nothing. That day his father and mother showed great pleasure in seeing her again. His father had suggested--nay, arranged--that he should accompany her on that long journey to Ireland. When Jerry O'Brien left Carlingford House that afternoon, he had no intention of asking Madge to be his wife. All the way from Kilbarry to London he had been assuring himself that nothing could be more injudicious than to say anything to her on the subject at present. He believed she was not indifferent to him. Little actions and words of hers had given him cause to hope. He was sure she preferred him to any other man in whose society he had ever seen her. She had smiled and coloured at his approach, and once or twice, when he had ventured to press her hand, he had suffered no reproach by word or look. All this made it only the more necessary for him to be on guard and not allow himself to be betrayed into a declaration until his affairs were settled. But the opportunity came, and he could not resist the temptation of telling her he loved her, and of hearing from her that he was loved by her. It is true no word had been said between them of an engagement even. The mere formality of speech was nothing. Practically he had asked her to be his wife, and she had plainly given him to understand she was willing to marry him.