“I was informing Mr. Dale that the petitioner enjoys our concurrent good wishes:  and mine in no degree less than yours, Willoughby,” observed Dr. Middleton, whose billows grew the bigger for a check.  He supposed himself speaking confidentially.  “Ladies have the trick, they have, I may say, the natural disposition for playing enigma now and again.  Pressure is often a sovereign specific.  Let it be tried upon her all round from every radiating line of the circle.  You she refuses.  Then I venture to propose myself to appeal to her.  My daughter has assuredly an esteem for the applicant that will animate a woman’s tongue in such a case.  The ladies of the house will not be backward.  Lastly, if necessary, we trust the lady’s father to add his instances.  My prescription is, to fatigue her negatives; and where no rooted objection exists, I maintain it to be the unfailing receipt for the conduct of the siege.  No woman can say No forever.  The defence has not such resources against even a single assailant, and we shall have solved the problem of continuous motion before she will have learned to deny in perpetuity.  That I stand on.”

Willoughby glanced at Mrs. Mountstuart.

“What is that?” she said.  “Treason to our sex, Dr. Middleton?”

“I think I heard that no woman can say No forever!” remarked Lady Busshe.

“To a loyal gentleman, ma’am:  assuming the field of the recurring request to be not unholy ground; consecrated to affirmatives rather.”

Dr Middleton was attacked by three angry bees.  They made him say yes and no alternately so many times that he had to admit in men a shiftier yieldingness than women were charged with.

Willoughby gesticulated as mute chorus on the side of the ladies; and a little show of party spirit like that, coming upon their excitement under the topic, inclined them to him genially.  He drew Mr. Dale away while the conflict subsided in sharp snaps of rifles and an interval rejoinder of a cannon.  Mr. Dale had shown by signs that he was growing fretfully restive under his burden of doubt.

“Sir Willoughby, I have a question.  I beg you to lead me where I may ask it.  I know my head is weak.”

“Mr. Dale, it is answered when I say that my house is your home, and that Laetitia will soon be with us.”

“Then this report is true?”

“I know nothing of reports.  You are answered.”

“Can my daughter be accused of any shadow of falseness, dishonourable dealing?”

“As little as I.”

Mr. Dale scanned his face.  He saw no shadow.

“For I should go to my grave bankrupt if that could be said of her; and I have never yet felt poor, though you know the extent of a pensioner’s income.  Then this tale of a refusal . . . ?”

“Is nonsense.”

“She has accepted?”

“There are situations, Mr. Dale, too delicate to be clothed in positive definitions.”