“And what has she,” he appealed, “expected _me_ to give up? What but the desire of my heart and the dream of my life? Captain Yule announced to me but a few minutes since his intention to offer her his hand.” She faced him on it as over the table. “Well, if he does, I think he’ll simply find----” “Find what?” They looked at each other hard. “Why, that she won’t have it.” Oh, Mr. Prodmore now sprang up. “She _will_!” “She won’t!” Mrs. Gracedew more distinctly repeated. “She _shall_!” returned her adversary, making for the staircase with the evident sense of where reinforcement might be most required. Mrs. Gracedew, however, with a spring, was well before him. “She shan’t!” She spoke with positive passion and practically so barred the way that he stood arrested and bewildered, and they faced each other, for a flash, like enemies. But it all went out, on her part, in a flash too--in a sudden wonderful smile. “Now tell me how much!” Mr. Prodmore continued to glare--the sweat was on his brow. But while he slowly wiped it with a pocket-handkerchief of splendid scarlet silk, he remained so silent that he would have had for a spectator the effect of meeting in a manner her question. More formally to answer it he had at last to turn away. “How can I tell you anything so preposterous?” She was all ready to inform him. “Simply by computing the total amount to which, for your benefit, this unhappy estate is burdened.” He listened with his back presented, but that appeared to strike her, as she fixed this expanse, as an encouragement to proceed. “If I’ve troubled you by showing you that your speculation is built on the sand, let me atone for it by my eagerness to take off your hands an investment from which you derive so little profit.” He at last gave her his attention, but quite as if there were nothing in it. “And pray what profit will _you_ derive----?” “Ah, that’s my own secret!” She would show him as well no glimpse of it--her laugh but rattled the box. “I want this house!” “So do I, damn me!” he roundly returned; “and that’s why I’ve practically paid for it!” He stuffed away his pocket-handkerchief. There was nevertheless something in her that could hold him, and it came out, after an instant, quietly and reasonably enough. “I’ll practically pay for it, Mr. Prodmore--if you’ll only tell me your figure.” “My figure?” “Your figure.” Mr. Prodmore waited--then removed his eyes from her face. He appeared to have waited on purpose to let her hope of a soft answer fall from a greater height. “My figure would be quite my own!” “Then it will match, in that respect,” Mrs. Gracedew laughed, “this overture, which is quite _my_ own! As soon as you’ve let me know it I cable to Missoura Top to have the money sent right out to you.” Mr. Prodmore surveyed in a superior manner this artless picture of a stroke of business. “You imagine that having the money sent right out to me will make you owner of this place?”