“Very likely; but no one spoke of papers beside yourself,” she replied, with a trace of sarcasm in the tone which ill suited the expression of her pallid face and drooping head.

“I’m sorry to see you looking so careworn, Mrs. Kinloch,” said he, with his blandest air.  “I intended to bring up a topic more agreeable, it is to be hoped, than runaway house-maids or old documents.”  He rubbed his hands softly and turned his eyes with a glance meant to be tender towards the place where her chair stood; if he had been a cat, he would have purred the while.

Mrs. Kinloch now, for the first time, observed the wig, the unusual look of tidiness, and, above all, the flower in his hand; she also saw the crucified smile that followed his last remark.  “The ridiculous old fool!” thought she,—­“what can he mean?” But to him she translated it,—­

“What is the more agreeable topic?”

“Really, you attack me like a lawyer.  Don’t you know, my dear Madam, how it confuses one to be sharply interrogated?”

“It would be something novel to see you confused, Squire Clamp.”

“Pray, don’t banter, Mrs. Kinloch.  I hoped to find you in a more complaisant humor.  There are topics which cannot be discussed with the square precision of legal rules,—­thoughts that require sympathy before they can be expressed.”  And he dropped his eyes with a ludicrous sigh.

“Oh, I appreciate your tender susceptibilities.  Please consider me as asking the question again in the most engaging manner.”

His new wig was becoming uncomfortable, and he fidgeted in his chair, twirling the luckless blossom.

“Why, Mrs. Kinloch, the long regard I entertained for your late lamented husband,—­ah, I mean my regard for you,—­ah, my lonely domicil,—­ah, since the decease of my—­my sainted wife,—­ah, and since the Scripture says it is not good for man to live alone,—­ah, your charming qualities and many virtues,—­not that your fortune,—­ah,—­I mean to say, that, though not rich, I am not grasping,—­and the cottage where you lived would be a palace,—­ah, for me, if not unworthy,—­ah, no desire to unduly shorten the period of mourning,—­ah, but life is short and uncertain”——­

There was a dead silence.  His mouth was vainly working, and his expression confused and despairing.  The flower had wilted in his moist hand.  Little streams of perspiration trickled down his face, to be mopped up by his bandanna.  Such was the ordeal of talking hollow sentiment to a cool and self-possessed woman.  She enjoyed the exhibition for a time,—­as what woman would not?  But the waves of her trouble rushed back upon her, and the spirit of mischief and coquetry was overwhelmed.  So she answered,—­

“You are pleased to be polite,—­perhaps gallant.  You must excuse me from taking part in such conversation to-day, however little is meant by it,—­and the less meant the better,—­I am not well.”

She rose feebly, and walked towards the door with as much dignity as her trembling frame could assume.  He was abashed; his fine speeches jumbled in meaningless fragments, his airy castle ready to topple on his unlucky head.  He would have been glad to rebuke her fickle humor, as he thought it; but he knew he had made a fool of himself, so he merely said,—­