When he was gone there was silence in the room. I do not know whether Laura had been conscious, while the two men wrangled before her, that she was the prize of the strife, and so, like the maidens of old, had been content to stand by passive and expectant, satisfied to see the best man win, or whether she had been too much alarmed to interpose. But certain it is that, when she was left alone with the curate, she felt almost as uncomfortable as she had ever felt in her life. She tried to say something indifferent, but for once she was too nervous to frame the words. And Mr. Clode, instead of assisting her, instead of bridging over the awkwardness of the moment, as he should have done, since he was the person to blame for it all, sat silent and morose, brooding over the fire and sipping his tea. At last he spoke. “Well,” he said abruptly, turning his dark eyes suddenly on hers. “Which is it to be, Laura?” He had never spoken to her in that tone before, and had any one told her that morning that she would submit to it, she would have laughed her informant to scorn. But there was a new-born masterfulness in the curate’s manner which cowed her. “I do not know what you mean,” she murmured, her face hot, her heart beating. “I think you do,” he answered sternly, without removing his eyes from her. “Is it to be the rector, or is it to be me, Laura? You must choose between us.” She recovered herself with a kind of gasp. “Are you not going a little too fast?” she said, trying to smile, and speaking with something of her ordinary manner. “I did not know that my choice was limited to the two you mention, Mr. Clode, or that I had to choose one at all.” “I think you must,” was his only answer. “You must choose between us.” Then, with a sudden movement, he rose and stood over her. “Laura!” he said in a different tone, in a low voice, which thrilled through her and awoke feelings and emotions hitherto asleep. “Laura, do not play with me! I am a man. Is he more? Is he as much? I love you with all my being! He cares only to kill time with you! Will you throw me over because he is a little richer, because I am the curate and he is the rector? If so, well, tell me, and I shall understand you!” It was not the way she had thought he would end. The force, the abruptness, the almost menace of the last four words took her by surprise and subdued her afresh. If she had had any doubt before which of the two men had her liking, she had none now. She knew that Clode’s little finger was more to her than Lindo’s whole hand; for, like most women, she had a secret admiration for force, even when exercised without much regard to good taste. “You need not speak to me like that,” she said, in gentle deprecation of his manner. He stooped over her. “Laura,” he said, “do you really mean it? Do you mean you will——” “Wait, please!” she answered, recovering a little of her ascendency. “Give me a little time. I want to think something out.”