“Do not fly me, Amabel,” he cried, in an impassioned tone, “but suffer me to declare the love I have for you.  I cannot live without you.”

Amabel, whose neck and cheeks were crimsoned with blushes, cast down her eyes before the ardent regards of the gallant, and endeavoured to withdraw her hand.

“One word only,” he continued, “and I release you.  Am I wholly indifferent to you!  Answer me—­yes or no!”

“Do not answer him, Amabel,” interposed her mother.  “He is deceiving you.  He loves you not.  He would ruin you.  This is the way with all these court butterflies.  Tell him you hate him, child, and bid him begone.”

“But I cannot tell him an untruth, mother,” returned Amabel, artlessly, “for I do not hate him.”

“Then you love me,” cried the young man, falling on his knees, and pressing her hand to his lips.  “Tell me so, and make me the happiest of men.”

But Amabel had now recovered from the confusion into which she had been thrown, and, alarmed at her own indiscretion, forcibly withdrew her hand, exclaiming in a cold tone, and with much natural dignity, “Arise, sir.  I will not tolerate these freedoms.  My mother is right—­you have some ill design.”

“By my soul, no!” cried the gallant, passionately.  “I love you, and would make you mine.”

“No doubt,” remarked Mrs. Bloundel, contemptuously, “but not by marriage.”

“Yes, by marriage,” rejoined the gallant, rising.  “If she will consent, I will wed her forthwith.”

Both Amabel and her mother looked surprised at the young man’s declaration, which was uttered with a fervour that seemed to leave no doubt of its sincerity; but the latter, fearing some artifice, replied, “If what you say is true, and you really love my daughter as much as you pretend, this is not the way to win her; for though she can have no pretension to wed with one of your seeming degree, nor is it for her happiness that she should, yet, were she sought by the proudest noble in the land, she shall never, if I can help it, be lightly won.  If your intentions are honourable, you must address yourself, in the first place, to her father, and if he agrees (which I much doubt) that you shall become her suitor, I can make no objection.  Till this is settled, I must pray you to desist from further importunity.”

“And so must I,” added Amabel.  “I cannot give you a hope till you have spoken to my father.”

“Be it so,” replied the gallant.  “I will tarry here till his return.”

So saying, he was about to seat himself, but Mrs. Bloundel prevented him.

“I cannot permit this, sir,” she cried.  “Your tarrying here may, for aught I know, bring scandal upon my house;—­I am sure it will be disagreeable to my husband.  I am unacquainted with your name and condition.  You may be a man of rank.  You may be one of the profligate and profane crew who haunt the court.  You may be the worst of them all, my Lord Rochester himself.  He is about your age, I have heard, and though a mere boy in years, is a veteran in libertinism.  But, whoever you are, and whatever your rank and station may be, unless your character will bear the strictest scrutiny, I am certain Stephen Bloundel will never consent to your union with his daughter.”