“Look here!” says he quickly, catching her by both arms, and holding her a little away from him; “I have a question to ask you.”

“There is always a question,” says she, smiling still, “between friends and foes, then why not between—­lovers?"

She lingers over the word, and, stooping her graceful head, runs her lips lightly across the hand that is holding her right arm.

A shiver runs through Rylton.  Is she true or false?  But, however it goes, how exquisite she is!

“And now your question,” says she; “how slow you are to ask it.  Now what is it?—­what—­what?”

“Shall I ask it, Marian?  I have asked it too often before.”

He is holding her arms very tightly now, and his eyes are bent on hers.  Once again he is under the spell of her beauty.

“Ask—­ask what you will!” cries she.  She laughs gaily, and throws back her head.  The last rays of the sunlight catch her hair, and lift it to a very glory round her beautiful face.  “Go on, go on,” she says lightly.  There is, perhaps, some defiance in her tone, but, if so, it only strengthens her for the fight.  “I am your captive!” She gives a little expressive downward glance at his hands, as he holds her arms.  “Speak, my lord! and your slave answers.”  She has thrown some mockery into her tone.

“I am not your lord,” says Rylton.  He drops her arms, and lets her go, and stands well back from her.  “That is the last part assigned to me.”

Mrs. Bethune’s gaze grows concentrated.  It is fixed on him.  What does he mean?  What is the object of this flat rebellion—­this receding from her authority?  Strength is hers, as well as charm, and she comes to the front bravely.

“Now what is it?” asks she, creeping up to him again, and now slipping her arm around his neck.  “How have I vexed you?  Who has been saying nasty little things about me?  The dear mother, eh?”

“I want no one to tell me anything, but you.”

“Speak, then; did I not tell you I should answer?”

“I want an answer to one question, and one only,” says Rylton slowly.

“That is modesty itself.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Marry you?” She repeats his words almost in a whisper, her eyes on the ground, then suddenly she uplifts her graceful form, and, lazily clasping her arms behind her head, looks at him.  “Surely we have been through this before,” says she, with a touch of reproach.

“Many times!” His lips have grown into a rather straight line.  “Still I repeat my question.”

“Am I so selfish as this in your eyes?” asks she.  “Is it thus you regard me?” Her large eyes have grown quite full of tears.  “Is my own happiness so much to me that for the sake of it I would deliberately ruin yours?”

“It would not ruin mine!  Marry me, Marian, if—­you love me!”

“You know I love you.”  Her voice is tremulous now and her face very pale.  “But how can we marry?  I am a beggar, and you——­”