De Craye was heated by his gallop to venture on the angling question: "Am I to hear the names of the bridesmaids?" The pace had nerved Clara to speak to it sharply: "There is no need." "Have I no claim?" She was mute. "Miss Lucy Darleton, for instance; whose name I am almost as much in love with as Crossjay." "She will not be bridesmaid to me." "She declines? Add my petition, I beg." "To all? or to her?" "Do all the bridesmaids decline?" "The scene is too ghastly." "A marriage?" "Girls have grown sick of it." "Of weddings? We'll overcome the sickness." "With some." "Not with Miss Darleton? You tempt my eloquence." "You wish it?" "To win her consent? Certainly." "The scene?" "Do I wish that?" "Marriage!" exclaimed Clara, dashing into the ford, fearful of her ungovernable wildness and of what it might have kindled.--You, father! you have driven me to unmaidenliness!--She forgot Willoughby, in her father, who would not quit a comfortable house for her all but prostrate beseeching; would not bend his mind to her explanations, answered her with the horrid iteration of such deaf misunderstanding as may be associated with a tolling bell. De Craye allowed her to catch Crossjay by herself. They entered a narrow lane, mysterious with possible birds' eggs in the May-green hedges. As there was not room for three abreast, the colonel made up the rear-guard, and was consoled by having Miss Middleton's figure to contemplate; but the readiness of her joining in Crossjay's pastime of the nest-hunt was not so pleasing to a man that she had wound to a pitch of excitement. Her scornful accent on "Marriage" rang through him. Apparently she was beginning to do with him just as she liked, herself entirely unconcerned. She kept Crossjay beside her till she dismounted, and the colonel was left to the procession of elephantine ideas in his head, whose ponderousness he took for natural weight. We do not with impunity abandon the initiative. Men who have yielded it are like cavalry put on the defensive; a very small force with an ictus will scatter them. Anxiety to recover lost ground reduced the dimensions of his ideas to a practical standard. Two ideas were opposed like duellists bent on the slaughter of one another. Either she amazed him by confirming the suspicions he had gathered of her sentiments for Willoughby in the moments of his introduction to her; or she amazed him as a model for coquettes--the married and the widow might apply to her for lessons. These combatants exchanged shots, but remained standing; the encounter was undecided. Whatever the result, no person so seductive as Clara Middleton had he ever met. Her cry of loathing, "Marriage!" coming from a girl, rang faintly clear of an ancient virginal aspiration of the sex to escape from their coil, and bespoke a pure, cold, savage pride that transplanted his thirst for her to higher fields. CHAPTER XXIII TREATS OF THE UNION OF TEMPER AND POLICY