“Oh, so did I,” she replied with forced gaiety.  “I came to look after my aunt, which reminds me that this is hardly the way to do it.  Will you please take me to her?”

“I assure you she does not want you,” cried Charles eagerly.  “I saw her not ten minutes ago with M. de Loudeac.  They seemed to be talking most intimately.”

“He is an old friend,” said Mary; “but, still, they may have finished by this time.  One can say a great deal in ten minutes.”

“Ah!” he put in quickly, “only give me them, Miss Masters.”

“I really think it is unnecessary,” she murmured with a rapid flush.  She made another movement, as if she would rise, dropping her bouquet in her haste to prevent his speech.  He picked it up quickly and replaced it in her hands.

“No, don’t go, Miss Masters,” he insisted.  “I surely have a right to be heard.  After all, I do not require ten minutes, nor five.  Only I came to say——­”

“Ah, don’t say it, Mr. Sylvester,” she pleaded.  “What is the good?”

“I mean that I love you!  I want you immensely to be my wife.”

She bent her head over her flowers, so that her eyes were quite hidden, and he could not see that they were full of tears; and for a long time there was silence, in which Sylvester’s foot kept time nervously with the music.  The girl bitterly reproached her tiredness, which had dulled apprehension so far that she had not realized at once the danger of the situation, nor retreated while there was yet time.  She had always dreaded this; and now that it was accomplished, an illimitable vista of the disagreeable consequences broadened out before her.  The ice being once broken, however she might answer him now, a repetition, perhaps even several, could scarcely be avoided; she foresaw that his persistence would be immense, so that with whatsoever finality she might refuse him, it would all be to go over again.  And with it all was joined her natural reluctance to give an honest gentleman pain, only heightened by her sense that, for the first time in her knowledge of the man, the evident sincerity of his purpose had given simplicity to his speech.  He for once had been neither formal nor absurd, and the uniqueness of the fact, taken in conjunction with her share in it, seemed to have given him a claim on her consideration.  He had cast aside the armour of self-conceit at which she could have thrown a dart without remorse, and the man seeming so defenceless, she had a desire to deal gently with him.

“Mr. Sylvester,” she said at last, looking up at him, “I am so sorry, but please do not speak of this any more.  Believe me, it is quite impossible.  I am sensible of the honour you do me, deeply sensible, only it is impossible.  Let us forget this—­this mistake, and be better friends than we have ever been before.”

“Ah, Mary,” he broke out, “you must not answer me like that, without consideration.  Why should it be impossible?”