He had stopped, facing her in the middle of the way, his voice strong, his confidence supreme. At first she had stared at him in dumb wonder. Then, as she began to grasp the meaning of his harangue, astonishment was still dominant,--sheer astonishment. She scarcely listened. But, as he finished, the thatch of the summer house caught her eye. A vision arose of a man beside whom Eliphalet was not worthy to crawl. She thought of Stephen as he had stood that evening in the sunset, and this proposal seemed a degradation. This brute dared to tempt her with money. Scalding words rose to her lips. But she caught the look on Eliphalet's face, and she knew that he would not understand. This was one who rose and fell, who lived and loved and hated and died and was buried by--money. For a second she looked into his face as one who escapes a pit gazes over the precipice, and shuddered. As for Eliphalet, let it not be thought that he had no passion. This was the moment for which he had lived since the day he had first seen her and been scorned in the store. That type of face, that air,--these were the priceless things he would buy with his money. Crazed with the very violence of his long-pent desire, he seized her hand. She wrung it free again. “How--how dare you!” she cried. He staggered back, and stood for a moment motionless, as though stunned. Then, slowly, a light crept into his little eyes which haunted her for many a day. “You--won't--marry me?” he said. “Oh, how dare you ask me!” exclaimed Virginia, her face burning with the shame of it. She was standing with her hands behind her, her back against a great walnut trunk, the crusted branches of which hung over the bluff. Even as he looked at her, Eliphalet lost his head, and indiscretion entered his soul. “You must!” he said hoarsely. “You must! You've got no notion of my money, I say.” “Oh!” she cried, “can't you understand? If you owned the whole of California, I would not marry you.” Suddenly he became very cool. He slipped his hand into a pocket, as one used to such a motion, and drew out some papers. “I cal'late you ain't got much idea of the situation, Miss Carvel,” he said; “the wheels have been a-turning lately. You're poor, but I guess you don't know how poor you are,--eh? The Colonel's a man of honor, ain't he?” For her life she could not have answered,--nor did she even know why she stayed to listen. “Well,” he said, “after all, there ain't much use in your lookin' over them papers. A woman wouldn't know. I'll tell you what they say: they say that if I choose, I am Carvel & Company.” The little eyes receded, and he waited a moment, seemingly to prolong a physical delight in the excitement and suffering of a splendid creature. The girl was breathing fast and deep.