his marriage with Dorothy Grey.  And there had been something in her personal appearance which, to his eyes, had not been distasteful.  He did not think her face the sweetest thing in the world to look at, as her father had done, but he saw in it the index of that intellect which he had desired to obtain for himself.  As for her dress, that, of course, should all be altered.  He imagined that he could easily become so far master of his wife as to make her wear fine clothes without difficulty.  But then he did not know Dolly Grey.

He had studied deeply his manner of attacking her.  He would be very humble at first, but after a while his humility should be discontinued, whether she accepted or rejected him.  He knew well that it did not become a husband to be humble; and as regarded a lover, he thought that humility was merely the outside gloss of love-making.  He had been humble enough on the former occasion, and would begin now in the same strain.  But after a while he would stir himself, and assume the manner of a man.  “Miss Grey,” he said, as soon as they were alone, “you see that I have been as good as my word, and have come again.”  He had already observed her old frock and her mode of dressing up her hair, and had guessed the truth.

“I knew that you were to come, Mr. Barry.”

“Your father has told you so.”

“Yes.”

“And he has spoken a good word in my favor?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Which I trust will be effective.”

“Not at all.  He knows that it is the only subject on which I cannot take his advice.  I would burn my hand off for my father, but I cannot afford to give it to any one at his instance.  It must be exclusively my own,—­unless some one should come very different from those who are likely to ask for it.”

There was something, Mr. Barry thought, of offence in this, but he could not altogether throw off his humility as yet.  “I quite admit the value of the treasure,” he said.

“There need not be any nonsense between us, Mr. Barry.  It has no special value to any one,—­except to myself; but to myself I mean to keep it.  At my father’s instance I had thought over the proposition you have made me much more seriously than I had thought it possible that I should do.”

“That is not flattering,” he said.

“There is no need for flattery, either on the one side or on the other.  You had better take that as established.  You have done me the honor of wishing, for certain reasons, that I should be your wife.”

“The common reason:—­that I love you.”

“But I am not able to return the feeling, and do not therefore wish that you should be my husband.  That sounds to be uncivil.”

“Rather.”

“But I say it in order to make you understand the exact truth.  A woman cannot love a man because she feels for him even the most profound respect.  She will often do so when there is neither respect nor esteem.  My father has so spoken of you to me that I do esteem you; but that has no effect in touching my heart, therefore I cannot become your wife.”