“Forgive me,” she said gently; “only I am tired now.  And consideration would not alter it.  Let me go.”

He put one hand out detaining her, and she sank back again wearily on her chair.

“If you are tired, so much the more reason that you should hear me.  You will not be tired if you marry me.  If you are tired, it is because your life has no great interests:  it’s frivolous; it is dribbled away on little things.  You don’t really care for it—­you are too good for it—­the sort of life you lead.”

“The sort of life I lead?”

“The ideals of your set, of the people who surround your aunt, of your aunt herself.  The whole thing is barren.”

“Are we more frivolous than the rest?” she asked suddenly.

“You are better than the rest,” he said promptly.  “That is why I want you to marry me.  You were made for great interests—­for a large scene.”

“What are they—­your great interests, your ideals?” she asked presently.  “How are they so much better than ours?—­though I don’t know what ours may be.”

“If you marry me, you will find out,” he said.  “Oh, you shall have them, I promise you that!  I want you immensely, Mary!  I am just going into public life, I mean to go far—­and if I have your support, your sympathy, if you become my wife, I shall go much farther.  And I want to take you away from all this littleness, and put you where you can be felt, where your character—­I can’t say how I admire it—­may have scope.”

“I am sorry,” she said again; “you are very good, and you do me great honour:  but I can only answer as before—­it is not possible.”

“Ah, but you give no reason!” he cried.  “There is no reason.”

“Is it not a good enough one that I do not love you?” said the girl.

“Only marry me,” he persisted, “and that will come.  I don’t want to hurry you, you know.  I would rather you would take time and consider; give me your answer in a week or two’s time.”

They were silent for a little; Sylvester was now perfectly composed:  his own agitation seemed to have communicated itself to the girl, whom he watched intently, with his bland, impartial gaze.  She had closed her eyes, was resting her chin on her bouquet, and appeared to be deeply meditating his words.  She looked up at last with a little shiver.

“I am very tired,” she said.  “If I promise to think over what you have said to-night and to give you my answer in a month’s time, will you try and find Lady Garnett for me now?”

“Ah, Miss Masters—­Mary!” he said, “that is all I want.”

“And in the meantime,” she pursued gently, “to allow the subject to drop?”

“You must make your own terms,” he said; “but surely I may come and see you?”

“Very well,” she consented, after a moment; “if it gives you any pleasure, you may come.”

At which Charles simply took her cold, irresponsive hand in his own, with a silent pressure.  Irresponsive as it was, however, he reminded himself, she had made no effective protest against the gesture.