“No--well, Lord Kestervin was English, and he fussed and worried, and looked out trains all the time.” “I shall have a groom of the chambers.” “And they were all casual and indifferent to their poor wives! and boresome, and bored!! And one told long stories, and one was stodgy, and one opened his wife’s letters before she was down!” “Tell me the attributes of a perfect husband, then, that I may learn them,” he said. “They have to pay all the bills.” “Well, I could do that.” “And they have not to interfere with one’s movements. And one must be able to make their hearts beat.” “Well, you could do _that_!” and he bent nearer to me. I drew back. “And they have to take long journeys to the Rocky Mountains for months together, with men friends.” “Certainly not!” he exclaimed. “There, you see!” I said, “the most important part you don’t agree to. There is no use talking further.” “Yes, there is! You have not said half enough--have they to make your heart beat, too?” “You are hurting my hand.” He dropped it. “Have they?” “Lady Ver said no husband could do that--the fact of there being one kept your heart quite quiet, and often made you yawn--but she said it was not necessary, as long as you could make theirs, so that they would do all you asked.” “Then do women’s hearts never beat--did she tell you?” “Of course they beat! How simple you are for thirty years old. They beat constantly for--oh--for people who are not husbands.” “That is the result of your observations, is it? You are probably right, and I am a fool.” “Some one said at lunch yesterday that a beautiful lady in Paris had her heart beating for you,” I said, looking at him again. He changed--so very little, it was not a start, or a wince even--just enough for me to know he felt what I said. “People are too kind,” he said. “But we have got no nearer the point. When will you marry me?” “I shall marry you--never, Mr. Carruthers,” I said, “unless I get into an old maid soon, and no one else asks me. Then if you go on your knees I may put out the tip of my finger, perhaps!” and I moved towards the door, making him a sweeping and polite curtsey. He rushed after me. “Evangeline!” he exclaimed, “I am not a violent man as a rule, indeed I am rather cool, but you would drive any one perfectly mad. Some day some one will strangle you--Witch!” “Then I had better run away to save my neck,” I said, laughing over my shoulder as I opened the door and ran up the stairs, and I peeped at him from the landing above. He had come out into the hall. “Good-bye,” I called, and without waiting to see Lady Ver he tramped down the stairs and away. “Evangeline, what _have_ you been doing?” she asked, when I got into her room, where her maid was settling her veil before the glass, and trembling over it--Lady Ver is sometimes fractious with her, worse than I am with Véronique, far. “Evangeline, you look naughtier than ever; confess at once.” “I have been as good as gold,” I said.