“You have had another quarrel with your mother,” says she sympathetically, ignoring the anger blazing in his eyes.  “About that silly girl?”

“No.  About you!”

His tone is short—­almost violent.

“About me?”

She changes colour.

“Yes, you.  She accuses you of encouraging that wretched old man, Dunkerton.  Do you hear? Speak!  Is it true?”

“This is madness!” says Marian, throwing out her hands.  “How could you believe such folly?  That old man!  Why will you give ear to such gossip?”

“Put an end to it, then,” says he savagely.

“I?  How can I put an end to it?”

“By marrying me!"

He stands opposite to her, almost compelling her gaze in return.  Mrs. Bethune gives it fearlessly.

“Maurice dearest, you are excited now.  Your mother—­she is so irritating.  I know her.  Marriage, as we now stand, would mean quite dreadful things.  Do be reasonable!”

“You talk of reason,” says he passionately.  “Does love reason?  No!  I will hear your last word now.”

“Are you condemning me, then, to death?” asks she, smiling delicately, and laying two large but delicate hands upon his arms.

He shakes her off.

“Answer me.  Will you marry me, or will you not?”

“This is too sudden, Maurice!”

A little fire is kindling in her own eyes; she had objected to that last repulsion.

“Sudden!  After all these months!” He pauses.  “Is it to be Dunkerton or me?” asks he violently.

“Please do not bring Lord Dunkerton into this discussion,” says she coldly.

“I certainly shall.”

“You mean that I——­”

“Have encouraged him.  So I hear, at all events, and—­there are things I remember.”

“For the matter of that,” says she, throwing up her beautiful head, “there are things I remember too!  You—­you dare to come here and accuse me of falsity when I have watched you all day making steady court to that wretched little plebeian, playing tennis with her all the day long, and far into the evening!  No!  I may have said half a dozen words to Lord Dunkerton, but you—­how many half-dozen words have you said to Miss Bolton?  Come, answer me that, as we seem bent on riddles.”

“All this is as nothing,” says Rylton.  “You know, as well as I do, that Miss Bolton has not a thought of mine!  I want only one thing, the assurance that you love me, and I put it at marriage.  Will you link your fate with mine, low down though it is at present?  If you will, Marian”—­he comes closer to her and lays his hands upon her shoulders, and gazes at her with eyes full filled with honest love—­“I shall work for you to the last day of my life.  If you will not——­”

He pauses—­he looks at her—­he waits.  But no answer comes from her.

“Marian, take courage,” says he softly—­very softly.  “My darling, is money everything?”