She had sweetened the refusal by declaring that, as she could not marry him—­as she could not to be so selfish as to ruin his prospects—­she would never marry at all.  She had looked lovely in the light of the dying sunset as she said all this to him, and Maurice had believed in her a thousand times more than before, and had loved her a thousand times deeper.  And in a sense his belief was justified.  She did love him, as she had never loved before, but not well enough to risk poverty again.  She had seen enough of that in her first marriage, and in her degradation and misery had sworn a bitter oath to herself never again to marry, unless marriage should sweep her into the broad river of luxury and content.  Had Maurice’s financial affairs been all they ought to have been but for his mother’s extravagances, she undoubtedly would have chosen him before all the world; but Maurice’s fortunes were (and are) at a low ebb, and she would risk nothing.  His uncle might die, and then Maurice, who was his heir, would be a rich man; but his uncle was only sixty-five, and he might marry again, and——­ No, she would refuse!

Rylton had pressed his suit many times, but she had never yielded.  It was always the same argument, she would not ruin him.  But one day—­only the other day, indeed—­she had said something that made him know she sometimes counted on his uncle’s death.  She would marry him then!  She would not marry a poor man, however much she loved him.  The thought that she was waiting for his uncle’s death revolted him at the moment, and though he forgave her afterwards, still the thought rankled.

It hurt him, in a sense, that she could desire death—­the death of another—­to create her own content.

His mother had hinted at it only just now!  Marian feared, she said—­feared to step aboard his sinking ship.  Where, then, was her love, that perfect love that casteth out all fear?

A wave of anger rushes over him as he looks at her now—­smiling, fair, with large, deep, gleaming eyes.  He tells himself he will know at once what it is she means—­what is the worth of her love.

She is leaning towards him, a soft red rosebud crushed against her lips.

“Ah, yes!  It is true.  I did know you were coming,” says she tenderly.

She gives a hasty, an almost imperceptible glance around.  Lady Rylton is often a little—­just a little—­prone to prying—­especially of late; ever since the arrival of that small impossible heiress, for example; and then very softly she slips her hand into his.

“What an evening!” says she with delicate fervour.  “How sweet, how perfect, Maurice!”

“Well?” in a rather cold, uncompromising way.

Mrs. Bethune gives him a quick glance.

“What a tone!” says she; “you frighten me!”

She laughs softly, sweetly.  She draws closer to him—­closer still;—­and, laying her cheek against his arm, rubs it lightly, caressingly, up and down.