‘The season is now drawing to its close,’ Mrs. Barton said; ’we shall be soon returning to Galway.  We shall be separating.  I know Olive likes you, but if there is no—­if it is not to be, I should like to tell her not to think about it any more.’

The Marquis felt the earth gliding.  What could have tempted the woman to speak like this to him?  What answer was he to make her?  He struggled with words and thoughts that gave way, as he strove to formulate a sentence, like water beneath the arms of one drowning.

‘Oh, really, Mrs. Barton,’ he said, stammering, speaking like one in a dream, ’you take me by surprise.  I did not expect this; you certainly are too kind.  In proposing this marriage to me, you do me an honour I did not anticipate, but you know it is difficult offhand, for I am bound to say . . . at least I am not prepared to say that I am in love with your daughter. . . .  She is, of course, very beautiful, and no one admires her more than I, but—­’

’Olive will have twenty thousand pounds paid down on her wedding-day; not promised, you know, but paid down; and in the present times I think this is more than most girls can say.  Most Irish properties are embarrassed, mortgaged,’ she continued, risking everything to gain everything, ’and twenty thousand pounds would be a material help to most men.  At my death she will have more; I—­’

‘Oh, Mrs. Barton, do not let us speak of that!’ cried the little man.

’And why not?  Does it prove that because we are practical, we do not care for a person?  I quite understand that it would be impossible for you to marry without money, and that Olive will have twenty thousand paid down on her wedding-day will not prevent you from being very fond of her.  On the contrary, I should think—­’

‘Twenty thousand pounds is, of course, a great deal of money,’ said the little man, shrinking, terror-stricken, from a suddenly protruding glimpse of the future with which Milord had previously poisoned his mind.

‘Yes, indeed it is, and in these times,’ urged Mrs. Barton.

The weak grey eyes were cast down, abashed by the daring determination of the brown.

‘Of course Olive is a beautiful girl,’ he said.

‘And she is so fond of you, and so full of affection. . . .’

The situation was now tense with fear, anxiety, apprehension; and with resolute fingers Mrs. Barton tightened the chord until the required note vibrated within the moral consciousness.  The poor Marquis felt his strength ebbing away; he was powerless as one lying in the hot chamber of a Turkish bath.  Would no one come to help him?  The implacable melody of Dream Faces, which Olive hammered out on the piano, agonized him.  If she would stop for one moment he would find the words to tell her mother that he loved Violet Scully and would marry none other.  But bang, bang, bang the left hand pounded the bass into his stunned ears, and the eyes that he feared were fixed upon him.  He gasped for words, he felt like a drunkard who clutches the air as he reels over a precipice, and the shades of his ancestors seemed to crowd menacingly around him.  He strove against his fears until a thin face with luminous eyes shone through the drifting wrack like a stars.