‘It was the only thing to be done--the only thing possible. It was----’ he paused for a second, and then went on resolutely--‘it was my father’s act by which you suffered. I should have been a scoundrel if I had done otherwise.’ ‘And are you to do all? and am I to do nothing? It is selfish to keep all the generosity to yourself.’ He laughed as if he found this female paradox a pleasant fancy, but she was not to be put off so. ‘If the subject pains you, as I know it does, dear, please understand why I speak of it I don’t want you to think I take your sacrifice as you pretend to take it. It isn’t a matter of course, as you pretend it is; and you may say what you like, Phil, but it isn’t a thing that everybody would have done. Don’t grudge me my gratitude; you did it for the love of me.’ ‘I didn’t do it for the love of you,’ said Phil, laughing tenderly; ‘how often am I to tell you that, you little mountain of obstinacy? I did it because it was the right thing. I don’t say, mind you, that it wasn’t easier to do it for you than it might have been for somebody I didn’t know or care for; but that--as you will see quite clearly if you’ll bring your naturally logical mind to bear upon it--makes the thing so much the less creditable, provided there was any credit due to it at all.’ The loving feminine scorn of this masculine process of reasoning was expressed in a single glance, and was delightful to see. ‘It only means waiting a little longer before I claim you.’ The girl would fain have asked, ‘Why should you wait when I have enough for both by your gift? What does it matter which of us it is who has the money--you or I?’ But this question went unspoken, for obvious reasons. A woman is tongue-tied by the countless conventionalities of education. She must often let her thoughts lie silent in her heart, though she burns to express them, and find what answer she can to questions she dare not offer. Philip had repaired her loss by beggaring himself. That was noble. But now he persisted in deferring their marriage, and had buried himself in that lofty sarcophagus in Gable Inn, resolved only to claim her, though she was all his own already, when he had reinstated his fortunes by his labour. That was noble also, perhaps, but in her own heart she thought it a trifle foolish--say Quixotic, not to be too severe. She would rather have seen his ardour find a more commonplace expression. She had a general sort of belief that whatever Philip did was bound to be right, and yet this actual experience rather jarred with that assumption.