“I don’t propose to discuss these matters at breakfast, mother,” she said. “You know, it takes all the romance out of a thing. It reduces love and marriage to the level of cold bacon.” “But has he?” persisted Mrs. Yale. “Has he what?” the girl evaded. “Has he proposed to you, my dear? Let me impress upon you this fact--that though Captain Talham is not enormously wealthy, he has prospects, and he is enormously generous. I hope you have not forgotten the fact that he rescued you from the hands of those terrible persons.” “He has proposed,” interrupted the girl, “if that is what you mean. In fact, he called this morning at five o’clock to make his proposal.” CHAPTER XIV. AND RECEIVES HIS ANSWER. Mrs. Yale gasped. “Proposed this morning!” she repeated incredulously. “At five o’clock!” “He called at five this morning,” said the girl, “as Martha Ann will tell you, if you have any doubts.” “Why was I not aroused?” asked Mrs. Yale, with a sense of grievance that she had missed something. “Because he wasn’t proposing to you,” said the girl calmly. “It was my affair entirely.” Mrs. Yale got up from the table, a little hurt. “I think, Yvonne,” she said, with a sort of stagey gentleness, “that you might remember my anxieties and sacrifices.” “I do not forget them,” said her stepdaughter; “only, unfortunately, this is my anxiety and my sacrifice.” Mrs. Yale sniffed, and searched aimlessly for her handkerchief, but thought better of it. After all, Yvonne was not the sort of girl to be moved by tears. She did not need to have this fact again impressed upon her. She was hard. The dear colonel, her father, had shown similar callousness of tears, and had laid down the perfectly dreadful theory that the more one wept the less one perspired. And indeed, he had written a paper on the subject, and had invited the Royal Society to allow him to read it--a request which was respectfully declined. The subject of her marriage, as Yvonne had so truly said, had formed a periodic matter for argument--only unfortunately, in the present instance, it was absolutely necessary that Mrs. Yale should know where she stood. She had hinted as much--indeed, had said as much--before; but now she could say so in very truth. The eccentric behaviour of Long Island Gas was as nothing to the monstrous conduct of an oil well in Southern Russia. Quite a lot of Mrs. Yale’s money had gone from time to time towards the sinking of a bore hole upon what the directors invariably and carefully referred to as “The Property.” When they wrote to Mrs. Yale they referred to themselves as “Your Directors.” It gave the good lady the comforting feeling that they were distant relations--though what satisfaction accrued to her from that, Heaven only knows.