“Oh, I should be delighted!” cried Mrs. Dengelton, with a shudder, for she was a very bad sailor; “but does it not take a great deal of money to keep up such an expensive luxury?” “A great deal,” assented the poet, suppressing a smile as he saw the dexterous way in which Mrs. Dengelton was trying to find out the extent of his income; “but, fortunately, I can afford it.” “How lucky you are!” sighed the lady, now adopting a more polite tone towards this wealthy young man. “Ah, it is a splendid thing to be rich. My late husband was of good birth, but poor, and he did not leave me very well off. However, I have a sufficiently good income to live comfortably, and of course my dear daughter for a companion.” “What will you do when Miss Dengelton marries?” “Oh, I will live with her still. You see, young wives are inexperienced, and I could take all that sort of thing on my shoulders.” Crispin shuddered, for the prospect of living under the same roof with this lady was anything but an inviting one. “Of course, I do not mind speaking freely to you, dear Mr. Crispin,” pursued Mrs. Dengelton, determined to crush all thoughts Crispin might have regarding Eunice, “because you are such a friend of dear Maurice. You know I wish him to marry his cousin, it would be a perfect match.” “Would it?” said Crispin grimly. “Yes; it would keep the property in the family,” said Mrs. Dengelton, who had arrived at this remarkable conclusion by some means known only to herself; “and then, of course, this would be my home, and I could live here with my dear children. You see, I speak openly to you, because I know you would like to see dear Maurice happily married.” “I would indeed, Mrs. Dengelton, but not to your daughter.” “Indeed, Mr. Crispin! and why not?” “Because I want to marry her myself.” “Mr. Crispin!” If a bombshell had dropped through the roof, Mrs. Dengelton could not have been more astonished. She half guessed that this audacious poet admired Eunice, but to speak thus so boldly, and after she had given her views as to the future settlement of her daughter in matrimony—it was too horrible! Who was this man? Nobody knew. He had not even two names like respectable people, and to propose to bestow the only one he possessed on her daughter, was too much for Mrs. Dengelton’s powers of endurance. She was actually dumb with astonishment, and those who had once heard this lady’s tongue could have seen from that alone how she was thunderstruck. For a minute she gazed at Crispin with horror-struck eyes, but as he did not turn into stone before that Medusa gaze, or even have the grace to blush, Mrs. Dengelton recovered her powers of speech with a weak laugh. “Oh, of course you are jesting!” “I am not jesting. I wish to marry your daughter.” “Impossible!” “Why is it impossible?”