"But you must. Forgive me, you shall. I love you as I never loved any woman in my life, and I am asking you to be my wife." "You do me much honour, Lord Quinton," she returned--and was it his fancy that made it seem to him that her lips curled a little?--"but the offer you make me I must refuse." "Refuse!" There was almost amusing wonder and a good deal of anger in his tone and look. "You force me to repeat the word--refuse." "And why?" "I do not want to marry you." "You do not love me?"--incredulously. "I do not love you,"--colouring slightly. "But I would teach you, Claire"--catching her arm firmly in his hold now and drawing her to him,--"I would teach you. I can give you all and more of wealth and luxury than----" "Hush! And please let go my arm. If you could give me the world it would make no difference." "Claire, reconsider it! During the whole of my life I have never really wanted to marry any other woman. I will own that I have flirted and played at love." "No passport to my favour, I assure you, Lord Quinton." "Pshaw! I tell you women were all alike to me, all to be amusing and amused with, all so many butterflies till I met you. I won't mind admitting"--making his most fatal step--"that even when I first saw you--and it was not easy to do considering Warwick Howard kept you well in the background--I only thought of your sweet eyes and lovely face. But after--after--Oh, Claire, I learned to love you!" "Enough!" cried the girl-- And enough also said the Remington, for the page was at an end. Toftrees withdrew it with a satisfied smile and glanced down it. "Yes!" he thought to himself, "the short paragraph, the quick conversation, that's what they really want. A paragraph of ten consecutive lines would frighten them out of their lives. Their minds wouldn't carry from the beginning to the end. We know!" At that moment there was a knock at the door and the butler entered. Smithers was a good servant and he enjoyed an excellent place, but it was the effort of his life to conceal from his master and mistress that he read Shakespeare in secret, and, in that household, his sense of guilt induced an almost furtive manner which Toftrees could never quite understand. "Mr. Dickson Ingworth has called, sir," said Smithers. "Ask him to come in," Toftrees said in his deep voice, and with a glint of interest in his eye.