A low, half-suppressed cry from Bee.  And Claudia continued: 

“It is a love that all which is best in my nature approves.  For oh, who is like Ishmael?  Who so wise, so good, so useful?  Morally, intellectually, and physically beautiful! an Apollo! more than that, a Christian gentleman!  He is human, and yet he appears to me to be perfectly faultless.”

There was a pause and a low sound of weeping, broken at last by Claudia, who rustled up to her feet, saying: 

“There, it is past!”

“Claudia,” said Bee solemnly, “you must not let this marriage go on; to do so would be to commit the deadliest sin!”

“I have determined to commit it, then, Bee.”

“Claudia, if I saw you on the brink of endless woe, would I not be justified in trying to pluck you back?  Oh, Claudia, dear cousin, pause, reflect—­”

“Bee, hush!  I have reflected until my brain has nearly burst.  I must fulfill my destiny.  I must be a peeress of England, cost what it may in sin against others, or in suffering to myself.”

“Oh, what an awful resolution! and what an awful defiance!  Ah, what have you invoked upon your head!”

“I know not—­the curse of Heaven, perhaps!”

“Claudia!”

“Be silent, Bee!”

“I must not, cannot, will not, be silent!  My hand is weak, but it shall grasp your arm to hold you back; my voice is low, but it shall be raised in remonstrance with you.  You may break from my hold; you may deafen yourself to my words; you may escape me so; but it will be to cast yourself into—­”

“Lawyer Vivian’s ‘gulf of perdition’!  Is that what you mean?  Nonsense, Bee.  My hysterics are over now; my hour of weakness is past; I am myself again.  And I feel that I shall be Lady Vincent—­the envy of Washington, the admiration of London, the only titled lady of the republican court, and the only beauty at St. James!” said Claudia, rustling a deep courtesy.

“Claudia—­”

“And in time I shall be Countess of Hurstmonceux, and perhaps after a while Marchioness of Banff; for Vincent thinks if the Conservatives come in his father will be raised a step in the peerage.”

“And is it for that you sell yourself?  Oh, Claudia, how Satan fools you!  Be rational; consider:  what is it to be a countess, or even a marchioness?  It is ‘distance lends enchantment to the view.’  Here in this country, where, thank the Lord, there is no hereditary rank,—­no titles and no coronets,—­these things, from their remoteness, impress your imagination, and disturb your judgment.  You will not feel so in England; there, where there are hundreds and thousands of titled personages, your coveted title will sink to its proper level, and you will find yourself of much less importance in London as Lady Vincent, than you are in Washington as Miss Merlin.  There you will find how little you have really gained by the sacrifice of truth, honor, and purity; all that is best in your woman’s nature—­all that is best in your earthly, yes, and your eternal life.”