May's conscience told her the same thing. She had yielded to a movement of temper. The most sensitive chords in her own nature had been jarred, and were still quivering. But that was no reason why she should be unkind or uncivil to her aunt; she repented, and, with her usual impulsive candour, said-- "I beg your pardon, Aunt Pauline. I ought not to have answered you so." "You have been agitated, dear child. Come here, and sit down by me. Now tell me, May--you surely will tell _me_--Mr. Bragg has proposed to you, has he not?" "No, Aunt Pauline." "_What?_" Mrs. Dormer-Smith would have been shocked if she could have seen her own face in the glass at that moment. The vulgarest market-woman's countenance could not have expressed surprise and consternation more unrestrainedly. "I think he, perhaps, would have asked me to marry him: but I stopped him." "You stopped him?" echoed her aunt, with clasped hands. But a little gleam of hope revived her. The matter had been mismanaged in some way. May was so deplorably devoid of tact! All might yet be well. "And why, for pity's sake, May, did you stop him?" "Because, as I could not accept him, Aunt Pauline, I wished to spare him as much as possible." "Could not accept him! Good heavens, May, this is frightful! Have you lost your senses? Do you know who and what Mr. Bragg is?" "He is a good, honest man; and I esteem him and like him." "And is not that enough? Do you know that there are girls of--I won't say better family, but--higher rank than yours, who would give their ears to be----But it can't be! You are a foolish, inexperienced child, who don't understand your own good fortune. You cannot be allowed to throw away this splendid opportunity. I will write to Mr. Bragg myself, and----" "Stay, Aunt Pauline. Please to understand that I will never, under any circumstances, dream of marrying Mr. Bragg. He is quite persuaded of this. He and I understand each other very well, and we mean to continue good friends; but pray do not lower your own dignity by writing to him on this subject!" Mrs. Dormer-Smith burst into tears. "Go away, you ungrateful child," she said, from behind her pocket-handkerchief. "I could not have believed you would have behaved in this manner after all I have done for you!" May would have been more distressed than she was had the spectacle of her aunt's tears been rarer. But she had seen Mrs. Dormer-Smith weep from, what seemed to her, very inadequate motives:--even once at the misfit of a new gown. Nevertheless, she tried to soothe her aunt. "Please don't cry, Aunt Pauline. I can't bear you to think me ungrateful. But, after all, what have I done? I dare say--I am sure, indeed, that you are only anxious for my welfare. And what sort of a life could I expect if I married a man I could not love?"