“Nay, mother,” observed Amabel, “you judge the gentleman unjustly.  I am sure he is neither a profligate gallant himself, nor a companion of such—­especially of the wicked Earl of Rochester.”

“I pretend to be no better than I am,” replied the young man, repressing a smile that rose to his lips at Mrs. Bloundel’s address; “but I shall reform when I am married.  It would be impossible to be inconstant to so fair a creature as Amabel.  For my rank, I have none.  My condition is that of a private gentleman,—­my name, Maurice Wyvil.”

“What you say of yourself, Mr. Maurice Wyvil, convinces me you will meet with a decided refusal from my husband,” returned Mrs. Bloundel.

“I trust not,” replied Wyvil, glancing tenderly at Amabel.  “If I should be so fortunate as to gain his consent, have I yours?”

“It is too soon to ask that question,” she rejoined, blushing deeply.  “And now, sir, you must go, indeed, you must.  You distress my mother.”

“If I do not distress you, I will stay,” resumed Wyvil, with an imploring look.

“You do distress me,” she answered, averting her gaze.

“Nay, then, I must tear myself away,” he rejoined.  “I shall return shortly, and trust to find your father less flinty-hearted than he is represented.”

He would have clasped Amabel in his arms, and perhaps snatched a kiss, if her mother had not rushed between them.

“No more familiarities, sir,” she cried angrily; “no court manners here.  If you look to wed my daughter, you must conduct yourself more decorously; but I can tell you, you have no chance—­none whatever.”

“Time will show,” replied Wyvil, audaciously.  “You had better give her to me quietly, and save me the trouble of carrying her off,—­for have her I will.”

“Mercy on us!” cried Mrs. Bloundel, in accents of alarm; “now his wicked intentions are out.”

“Fear nothing, mother,” observed Amabel, coldly.  “He will scarcely carry me off without my own consent; and I am not likely to sacrifice myself for one who holds me in such light esteem.”

“Forgive me, Amabel,” rejoined Wyvil, in a voice so penitent that it instantly effaced her displeasure; “I meant not to offend.  I spoke only the language of distraction.  Do not dismiss me thus, or my death will lie at your door.”

“I should be sorry for that,” she replied; “but, inexperienced as I am, I feel this is not the language of real regard, but of furious passion.”

A dark shade passed over Wyvil’s handsome features, and the almost feminine beauty by which they were characterized gave place to a fierce and forbidding expression.  Controlling himself by a powerful effort, he replied, with forced calmness, “Amabel, you know not what it is to love.  I will not stir hence till I have seen your father.”

“We will see that, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Bloundel, angrily.  “What, ho! son Stephen!  Leonard Holt!  I say.  This gentleman will stay here, whether I like or not.  Show him forth.”