This announcement fell with crushing force upon Kendale, who had imagined that there could be no end to the flow of money that was pouring in upon him.

“There’s only one way of raking in that much money in a hurry, and that is by marrying the little lame heiress,” he soliloquized.

It so happened that he had an engagement to call there on this particular evening, and he resolved that he would not let the opportunity slip past him—­that there was no time like the present.

Fortune, fate, call it what you will, favored Kendale on this particular occasion, as it usually did.  He found Claire alone in the drawing-room practising some sheet music which he had sent her a few days before.

She started up in confusion as the servant ushered him into the room, a swift blush crimsoning her cheeks.

“Mamma will be down directly, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, looking at him shyly from beneath her long lashes.

“Miss Stanhope—­Claire!” he exclaimed impulsively, seizing both of her little hands in his, “may we not have a few words together before my card is sent up to your mother?  Oh, Claire, you would surely say yes if you knew all I had to say to you.  Be kind and consent.”

“Since you seem to desire it so earnestly, I am sure I have no wish to object,” she answered, trembling in spite of her efforts to appear unconcerned under the fire of his keen, ardent gaze.

“You are an angel,” he cried, seating himself in a chair so near her that he could still hold the little fluttering hands, which she fain would have drawn from his clasp, for, although she had never before had a proposal of marriage, she guessed intuitively what was coming.

“Since I have but a few minutes alone with you, Claire, what I have to say must be said quickly,” he began.

For the first time in her life Claire was at a loss for an answer.

“I am sure you have guessed my secret, sweetest of all sweet girls,” he murmured.  “Every glance of my eyes, every touch of my hand, must have told it to you from the first moment we met.  Did it—­not?”

“No,” faltered Claire, her eyes drooping like a flower under the sun’s piercing rays.

“Then my lips shall tell you,” he cried.  “It is this—­I love you, little Claire—­love you with all my heart, all my soul.  You are the light of my life, the sunshine of my existence, my lode-star, my hope—­all that a young girl is to a man who idolizes her as the one supreme being on earth who can make him happy.  Oh, Claire, I worship you as man never worshiped woman before, and I want you for my wife.”

She opened her lips to speak, but he went on rapidly, hoarsely: 

“Do not refuse me, for it would be my death warrant if you did.  I tell you I cannot brook a refusal from those dear lips of yours.  If you do not consent I shall make away with myself in your presence here and now with a revolver which lies in my breast pocket.”