“Such accusations should not be lightly made, Mr. Cossey,” was her answer, and, as though to turn the subject, she rose and rang the bell for tea.

It came, and the bustle connected with it prevented any further conversation for a while.  At length, however, it subsided, and once more Edward found himself alone with Ida.  He looked at her and felt afraid.  The woman was of a different clay to himself, and he knew it—­ he loved her, but he did not understand her in the least.  However, if the thing was to be done at all it must be done now, so, with a desperate effort, he brought himself to the point.

“Miss de la Molle,” he said, and Ida, knowing full surely what was coming, felt her heart jump within her bosom and then stand still.

“Miss de la Molle,” he repeated, “perhaps you will remember a conversation that passed between us some weeks ago in the conservatory?”

“Yes,” she said, “I remember—­about the money.”

“About the money and other things,” he said, gathering courage.  “I hinted to you then that I hoped in certain contingencies to be allowed to make my addresses to you, and I think that you understood me.”

“I understood you perfectly,” answered Ida, her pale face set like ice, “and I gave you to understand that in the event of your lending my father the money, I should hold myself bound to—­to listen to what you had to say.”

“Oh, never mind the money,” broke in Edward.  “It is not a question of money with me, Ida, it is not, indeed.  I love you with all my heart.  I have loved you ever since I saw you.  It was because I was jealous of him that I made a fool of myself last night with Colonel Quaritch.  I should have asked you to marry me long ago only there were obstacles in the way.  I love you, Ida; there never was a woman like you—­never.”

She listened with the same set face.  Obviously he was in earnest, but his earnestness did not move her; it scarcely even flattered her pride.  She disliked the man intensely, and nothing that he could say or do would lessen that dislike by one jot—­probably, indeed, it would only intensify it.

Presently he stopped, his breast heaving and his face broken with emotion, and tried to take her hand.

She withdrew it sharply.

“I do not think that there is any need for all this,” she said coldly.  “I gave a conditional promise.  You have fulfilled your share of the bargain, and I am prepared to fulfil mine in due course.”

So far as her words went, Edward could find no fault with their meaning, and yet he felt more like a man who has been abruptly and finally refused than one declared chosen.  He stood still and looked at her.

“I think it right to tell you, however,” she went on in the same measured tones, “that if I marry you it will be from motives of duty, and not from motives of affection.  I have no love to give you and I do not wish for yours.  I do not know if you will be satisfied with this.  If you are not, you had better give up the idea,” and for the first time she looked up at him with more anxiety in her face than she would have cared to show.