“Pardon me, Miss Gourlay, I do not wish to be considered such.”

—­“That justice, humanity, self-respect, and a regard for the good opinion of the world, all combine to make you release me from this engagement.”

“Unfortunately, Miss Gourlay, I have it not in my power, even if I were willing, to release you from this engagement.  I am pledged to your father, and cannot, as a man of honor and a gentleman, recede from that pledge.  All these objections and difficulties only bring you exactly up to my theory, or very near it.  We shall marry upon very original principles; so that altogether the whole affair is very gratifying to me.  I had expectations that there was a prior attachment; but that would be too much to hope for.  As it is, I am perfectly satisfied.”

“Then, my lord, allow me to add to your satisfaction by assuring you that my heart is wholly and unalterably in possession of another; that that other knows it; and that I have avowed my love for him with the same truth and candor with which I now say that I both loathe and despise you.”

“I perceive you are excited, Miss Gourlay; but, believe me, all this sentimental affection for another will soon disappear after marriage, as it always does; and your eyes will become open to a sense of your enviable position.  Yes, indeed, you will live to wonder at these freaks of a heated imagination; and I have no doubt the day will come when you will throw your arms about my neck, and exclaim, ’My dear Dunroe, or Cullamore (you will then be my countess, I hope), what a true prophet you have been!  And what a proof it was of your good sense to overcome my early folly!  I really thought at the time that I was in love with another; but you knew better.  Shan’t we spend the winter in England, my love?  I am sick of this dull, abominable country, where nobody that one can associate with is to be met; and you mustn’t forget the box at the Opera.  Yes; we shall have an odd scene or so occasionally of that sort of thing; and no doubt be as happy as our neighbors.”

Lucy turned upon him one withering look, in which might be read hatred, horror, contempt; after which she slightly inclined her head, and without speaking, for she had now become incapable of it, withdrew to her own apartment, in a state of feeling which the reader may easily imagine.

“Alice,” said she to her maid, and her cheek, that had only a little before been so pale, now glowed with indignation like fire as she spoke, “Alice, I have degraded myself; I am sunk forever in my own opinion since I saw that heartless wretch.”

“How is that, miss?” asked Alice; “such a thing can’t be.”

“Because,” replied Lucy, “I was mean enough to throw myself on his very compassion—­on his honor—­on his generosity—­on his pride as a man and a gentleman—­but he has not a single virtue;” and she then, with cheeks still glowing, related to her the principal part of their conversation.