'Don't talk nonsense, child!' said her mother, severely, for there was a sort of tendency towards excitement in the atmosphere. 'Let me understand clearly. I suppose you know your own mind. I am to go and tell this man definitely that you won't marry him?' 'Mother, don't put it in that harsh way. Tell him I am very sorry. Tell him I tried hard to think of it. Tell him I am sorry he has waited so long; but if he had asked sooner----' 'He would have had the same answer?' The girl's faced flushed red, and she said in a strange sort of a way-- 'Yes--perhaps so--I think it must have been the same answer at any time. Oh, I never, never could have brought myself to marry him! Mother, does it look cruel--does it look as if I had treated him badly?' she added, in the same anxious way. 'No, I would not say that,' answered her mother, calmly. 'A man must take his chance; and until he speaks he can't have an answer. I do not think Mr. Jacomb has any reason to complain--except, perhaps, that you don't go yourself and hear what he has to say----' 'Oh, mother, I couldn't do that. It would only be pain for both of us. And then I don't refuse him, you see, mother; that's something----' Lady Beresford was uncertain. The truth was, she was not at all sorry to be the bearer of this message--even at the cost of a little trouble--for she did think that her daughter ought to marry into a better position in life. But she had just been listening to what Mr. Jacomb had to say for himself; and he had said a good deal, not only about himself but about Nan, and her disposition, and what would best secure her happiness, and so forth. Lady Beresford had been just a little bit impressed, and the question was whether Nan ought not to be invited to a fair consideration of the matter as represented by Mr. Jacomb himself. 'Well, Nan, if your mind is quite clear about it----' 'Oh it is, mother,' she answered eagerly, 'quite--quite----' That was an end. Her mother left the room, slowly; Nan listened for her footsteps until she heard her go into the drawing-room and close the door. Her first thought was to lock herself in, so that there should be no appeal. Her next was that it was excessively mean and cruel of her to experience this wonderful sense of relief, now that the die was irrevocably cast. 'If there was anything I could do for him,' she was thinking--'anything--anything but that;' and then she listened again to the stillness until she heard a bell ring, and the drawing-room door open again, and some one descend the stairs into the hall. She felt guilty and sorry at the same time. She wished she could do something by way of compensation. He would not think it was mere heartlessness? For indeed she had tried. And would she not have done him a far greater wrong if she had married him without being able to give him her whole heart?