“Diplomatic talents! What diplomatic talents? So many people have ‘thrust’ that questionable ‘greatness’ upon me, that it mortifies me. No—I know the only value and currency I have among the county people, is the value you have given me—the stamps of your name and rank. And I—I do not wish to disparage it. I wish to appear worthy of it—that is all.” “And you really believe what you say?” “Truly, I do.” Again she looked so lovely, in her truth and humility, that he was almost tempted to relent. And again the impulse only made him more unjust. “In a word, madam, what do you wish me to do, for I begin to weary of this discussion. Nor is it well to subject myself to the influence of your fascinations, for I candidly admit to you that I am sensible of them, as others have been.” “I only wished to propose to you to take a day, and drive around the neighborhood with me, to return the calls that have been made upon us.” “Very well, madam, I am at your commands whenever you please to call upon me for that service. When do you propose to go?” “At your earliest convenience.” “Will to-morrow do?” “If you please.” “To-morrow then let it be. And now, Mrs. Clifton, have you any further commands for me?” “Thank you—no,” she answered, very sadly, and turned to leave the room—hesitated, came back, and resting her hand upon the study-table for support, because she was trembling, said, “Forgive me—and let me speak to you one more word, will you?” “What is it?” “It is so sorrowful to be misunderstood. Please, do not mistake me in this matter. For myself, I do not care to follow up my acquaintance with these county people. I have lived all my life without extensive social intercourse. I have lived all my life in strict domestic retirement. I am so used to it that it is natural and agreeable to me. Indeed, I prefer it—but—” “Well?” She was suddenly silent. She wished to say, “But with _you_ it is otherwise. Living in the county, _you_ need, or will hereafter need an extensive neighborhood connection. And for _your_ sake, I would not alienate these people by neglect.” But she could not say it. Her old shyness, and a delicate fear of seeming to wish to place him under an obligation, kept her mute. “Well, Mrs. Clifton? If such seclusion is so agreeable to you, why do you wish to change it?” “I owe the ladies some acknowledgment of their civility to us.” “Have you anything farther to say to me?” “No,” said Catherine, and with an involuntary gesture of pain and distress, she turned and left the room, with all her generous thoughts unspoken. When the door had closed behind her, Archer Clifton started up, struck his clenched hands to his forehead, and pacing up and down the floor, distractedly exclaimed—