She made a movement of impatience. "Oh yes, it is--quite," she said. "However rich you are, you can't go on forever being blackmailed. Every one would know us, or else you'd have to give up Charles, and even then I expect you'd be obliged to pay twenty pounds every three-quarters of an hour. It can't be done. And, besides, we should never know a moment's peace. Wherever we went we should imagine a blackmailer behind every bush, and every one we spoke to might be a detective. It's no use. I must go back. Do say you know I must." "I don't." "Well, say you know I don't want to." "I can't say that . . . because, if you don't want to . . . there's always the old alternative, you know." He was looking straight before him at the majestic form of the Earl of Chatham. "What alternative?" "Marrying me," he said, humbly. "Do. I don't believe that you'd regret it." "When I marry," she said, strongly, "it won't be just because I want to get myself out of a scrape." "I hoped there might be other considerations," he said, still gazing at the marble. "You were happy yesterday. You said so." "You talk as though marrying were just nothing--like choosing a partner for a dance. It's like--like choosing what patterns you'd be tattooed with, if you were a savage. It's for life." "And you can't like me well enough to choose me?" "I do like you," she answered, with swift and most disheartening eagerness, "I do like you awfully; better than any man I've ever known--oh, miles better--not that that's saying much. But I don't know you well enough to marry you." "You don't think it would turn out well?" She faltered a little. "It--it mightn't." "We could go on being friends just as we are now," he urged. "It wouldn't be the same," she said, "because there'd be no way out. If we found we didn't like each other, to-morrow, or next month, or on Tuesday week, we could just say good-by and there'd be no harm done. But if we were married--no--no--no!" "Do you feel as though you would dislike me by Tuesday week?" "You know I don't," she said, impatiently, "but I might. Or you might. One never knows. It isn't safe. It isn't wise. I may be silly, but I'm not silly enough to marry for any reason but one." "And that?" "That I couldn't bear to part with him, I suppose." "And you can bear to part with me. There hasn't been much, has there? Just these three days, and all our talks, and. . . ." He stopped. A tear had fallen on her lap. "I won't worry any more," he said, in an altered voice. "You shall do just what you like. Shall I get a taxi and take you straight to your aunt's? I will if you like. Come."