“Do you positively tell me you have no heart for the position of first lady of the county?” said Mrs. Mountstuart.

Clara’s reply was firm:  “None whatever.”

“My dear, I will believe you on one condition.  Look at me.  You have eyes.  If you are for mischief, you are armed for it.  But how much better, when you have won a prize, to settle down and wear it!  Lady Patterne will have entire occupation for her flights and whimsies in leading the county.  And the man, surely the man—­he behaved badly last night:  but a beauty like this,” she pushed a finger at Clara’s cheek, and doated a half instant, “you have the very beauty to break in an ogre’s temper.  And the man is as governable as he is presentable.  You have the beauty the French call—­no, it’s the beauty of a queen of elves:  one sees them lurking about you, one here, one there.  Smile—­they dance:  be doleful—­they hang themselves.  No, there’s not a trace of satanic; at least, not yet.  And come, come, my Middleton, the man is a man to be proud of.  You can send him into Parliament to wear off his humours.  To my thinking, he has a fine style:  conscious?  I never thought so before last night.  I can’t guess what has happened to him recently.  He was once a young Grand Monarque.  He was really a superb young English gentleman.  Have you been wounding him?”

“It is my misfortune to be obliged to wound him,” said Clara.

“Quite needlessly, my child, for marry him you must.”

Clara’s bosom rose:  her shoulders rose too, narrowing, and her head fell slight back.

Mrs. Mountstuart exclaimed:  “But the scandal!  You would never, never think of following the example of that Durham girl?—­whether she was provoked to it by jealousy or not.  It seems to have gone so astonishingly far with you in a very short time, that one is alarmed as to where you will stop.  Your look just now was downright revulsion.”

“I fear it is.  It is.  I am past my own control.  Dear madam, you have my assurance that I will not behave scandalously or dishonourably.  What I would entreat of you is to help me.  I know this of myself . . .  I am not the best of women.  I am impatient, wickedly.  I should be no good wife.  Feelings like mine teach me unhappy things of myself.”

“Rich, handsome, lordly, influential, brilliant health, fine estates,” Mrs. Mountstuart enumerated in petulant accents as there started across her mind some of Sir Willoughby’s attributes for the attraction of the soul of woman.  “I suppose you wish me to take you in earnest?”

“I appeal to you for help.”

“What help?”

“Persuade him of the folly of pressing me to keep my word.”

“I will believe you, my dear Middleton, on one condition:  your talk of no heart is nonsense.  A change like this, if one is to believe in the change, occurs through the heart, not because there is none.  Don’t you see that?  But if you want me for a friend, you must not sham stupid.  It’s bad enough in itself:  the imitation’s horrid.  You have to be honest with me, and answer me right out.  You came here on this visit intending to marry Willoughby Patterne.”