The pause was long--preternaturally long. Clodagh stood as motionless as he, her hand still resting passive in his clasp, her clear eyes staring into his in stupefied amazement. It was plainly evident that no realisation of the declaration just made had penetrated her understanding. To her mind--unattuned, even vaguely, to the idea of love, and temporarily numbed by her grief--the thought that her father's friend could consider her in any light but that of a child was too preposterous, too unreal to come spontaneously. The belief that Milbanke's extraordinary words but needed some explanatory addition held her attentive and expectant. And under this conviction, she stood unconscious of his close regard and unembarrassed by the pressure of his hand. At last, as some shadowy perception of her thoughts obtruded itself upon him, he stirred nervously, and the flush upon his face deepened. "Clodagh," he said, "have I made myself plain? Do you understand that I--that I wish to marry you? That I want you for my--my wife?" The final word with its intense incongruity cut suddenly through the mist of her bewilderment. In a flash of comprehension the meaning of his declaration sprang to her mind. Her face turned red, then pale; with a sharp movement she drew away her hand. "You want to marry me?" she said in a slow, amazed voice. Before the note of blank, undisguised incredulity, Milbanke shrank into himself. "Yes," he said hurriedly--"yes; that is my desire. I know that perhaps it may--may seem incongruous. You are very young; and I----" He hesitated with a painful touch of embarrassment. At the hesitation, Clodagh's voice broke forth. "But I don't want to marry," she cried; "I don't want to marry--any one." There was a sharp, half-frightened note audible in her voice. For the moment, her whole attitude was that of the inexperienced being who clings instinctively to the rock of present things, and obstinately refuses to be cast into the sea of future possibilities. For the moment, she was blind to the instrument that was forcing her towards those possibilities. To her immature mind it was the choice between the known and the unknown. Then suddenly and accidentally her eyes came back to Milbanke's face, and the personal element in the choice assailed her abruptly. "Oh, I couldn't!" she cried involuntarily--"I couldn't!--I couldn't!" She did not intend to hurt him; but cruelty is the prerogative of the young, and she failed to see that he winced before the decisive honesty of her words. "Am I so--so very distasteful?" he asked in a low, unsteady voice. She looked at him in silence. It was the inevitable clash of youth and age. She was warm-hearted, she was capable of generous action; but before all else, she was young--the triumphant inheritor of the ages. Life stretched before her, while it lay behind him. She looked at him; and as she looked a wave of revolt--a strong, sudden sense of her individual right to happiness--surged through her.