The Squire broke off, observing her.  Elizabeth had listened to this extraordinary speech with growing bewilderment.  She had dreaded lest the Squire—­in proposing to marry her—­should make love to her.  But the coolness of the bargain actually suggested to her, the apparent absence from it of any touch of sentiment, took her completely aback.  She was asked, in fact, to become his slave—­his bailiff and secretary for life—­and the price was offered.

Her face spoke for her, before she could express her feeling in words.  The Squire, watching her, hurriedly resumed.

’I put it like an idiot!  What I meant was this.  If I could induce you to marry me—­and put up with me—­I believe both our lives might be much more interesting and agreeable!’

The intensity of the demand expressed in his pale hazel eyes and frowning brow struck full upon her.

But Elizabeth slowly shook her head.

’I am very grateful to you, Mr. Mannering, but’—­a rather ironical smile showed itself—­’I think you hardly understand me.  We should never get on.’

‘Why?’

‘Because our temperaments—­our characters—­are so different.’

‘You can’t forgive me about the war?’

‘Well, that hurts me,’ she said, after a moment, ’but I leave that to Mr. Desmond.  No!  I am thinking of myself and you.  What you propose does not attract me at all.  Marriage—­in my view—­wants something—­deeper—­to build on than you suggest.’

‘Inconsistent woman!’ cried the inner voice, but Elizabeth silenced it.  She was not inconsistent.  She would have resented love-making, but feeling—­something to gild the chain!—­that she had certainly expected.  The absence of it humiliated her.

The Squire’s countenance fell.

‘Deeper?’ he said, with a puzzled look.  ’I wonder what you mean?  I haven’t anything “deeper.”  There isn’t anything “deep” about me.’

Was it true?  Elizabeth suddenly recalled those midnight steps on the night of Desmond’s departure.

‘You know,’ he resumed, ’for you have worked with me now for six months—­you know at least what kind of a man I am.  I assure you it’s at any rate no worse than that!  And if I ever annoyed you too much, why you could always keep me in order—­by the mere threat of going away!  I could have cut my throat any day with pleasure during those weeks you were absent!’

Again Elizabeth hid her face in her hands and laughed—­rather hysterically.  There was something in this last appeal that touched her—­some note of ‘the imperishable child,’ which indeed she had always recognized in the Squire’s strange personality.

The Squire waited—­frowning.  When she looked up at last she spoke in her natural friendly voice.

’I don’t think, Mr. Mannering, we had better go on talking like this.  I can’t accept what you offer me—­’

‘Again I can’t think why,’ he interrupted vehemently; ’you have given me no sort of explanation.  Why must you refuse?’