“Me of all men,” he said softly, “who had such a mother.”

There was a long pause.  She grew curious.

“Is she dead?” she asked.

“Died when I was ten.  Not a soul’s ever cared for me since then.  I’m not sorry.  It’s made me remember her all the better.  And she was one of God’s saints.”

His voice was husky.  She muttered, “I am sorry,” and was annoyed to find that she really was.

“Why need you be?” he asked.  “There’s those that haven’t that much to look back on.  All I want from you, Miss Marion, is to let me help you.  Or at least not to think ill of me for wanting to help you.”

He sat still for a moment and continued to stroke his thigh.

“Marion,” he began abruptly, and then paused as if to brace himself.  “Marion, I hope you understand what I’m asking you to do.  I’m asking you to marry me.  But not to be my wife.  I never wouldn’t bother you for that.  I’m getting on in life, you see, so that I can make the promise with some chance of keeping it.  And besides, there’s more than that to it.  How,” he asked, lifting his head and speaking mincingly, “should I presume to go where Sir Harry’s been?  I would never ask you to be a wife to me.  Just to accept the protection of my name, that’s all I ask of you.”

They sat for a while in the embrowned sunshine of the dusty room.

He rose and stood over her, drooping his sleek head benevolently.  “Ah, well,” he said, “I’d best leave you alone.  God knows I never meant to intrude on you.  Perhaps you would take a little doze now, and after tea I’ll take you home.”  He looked on her moistly, tenderly.  “Think kindly of me if you dream.”  Some emotion coagulated his voice to a thick, slow flow.  “You’ll be the only woman who ever has thought of me in her dreams if you do.  I’ve never had anything to do with women all my life.  You see, I know I’ve got an ugly mug.  I wouldn’t dare to make love to any woman in case I saw—­what I’ve seen in your face—­what I saw in your face that night I came out on you from the belvedere.  Oh, I don’t blame you, Miss Marion.  You’re young—­you’re beautiful.  You’ve had a real gentleman for your sweetheart.  But I don’t see why I shouldn’t help you.  Still, if you don’t see it so....”  He sighed, and brought his hands together and bowed over them.  His eyes passed deliberately over her matronly body, as if he knew his thoughts about her were so delicate that no suspicion of indelicacy could arise out of his contact with her.  “Poor little Miss Marion,” he murmured in an undertone, and wheeled about and padded to the door.  He turned there and stood, his body neckless and sloping like a seal’s, and said softly, “And don’t think it was me who put Lady Teresa up to coming down to Yaverland’s End to-morrow morning.  It is her ladyship’s own idea.  I said to her, ’Leave the poor girl alone.’  I have always said to her, ’Leave the poor girl alone.’” His voice faded.  He moved vaporously out of the room.