“Can I give you a proof, Willoughby?  I am so utterly incapable of it that—­listen to me—­were you to come to me to tell me, as you might, how much better suited to you Miss Dale has appeared than I am—­and I fear I am not; it should be spoken plainly; unsuited altogether, perhaps—­I would, I beseech you to believe—­you must believe me—­give you . . . give you your freedom instantly; most truly; and engage to speak of you as I should think of you.  Willoughby, you would have no one to praise you in public and in private as I should, for you would be to me the most honest, truthful, chivalrous gentleman alive.  And in that case I would undertake to declare that she would not admire you more than I; Miss Dale would not; she would not admire you more than I; not even Miss Dale.”

This, her first direct leap for liberty, set Clara panting, and so much had she to say that the nervous and the intellectual halves of her dashed like cymbals, dazing and stunning her with the appositeness of things to be said, and dividing her in indecision as to the cunningest to move him of the many pressing.

The condition of feminine jealousy stood revealed.

He had driven her farther than he intended.

“Come, let me allay these . . .” he soothed her with hand and voice, while seeking for his phrase; “these magnified pinpoints.  Now, my Clara! on my honour! and when I put it forward in attestation, my honour has the most serious meaning speech can have; ordinarily my word has to suffice for bonds, promises, or asseverations; on my honour! not merely is there, my poor child! no ground of suspicion, I assure you, I declare to you, the fact of the case is the very reverse.  Now, mark me; of her sentiments I cannot pretend to speak; I did not, to my knowledge, originate, I am not responsible for them, and I am, before the law, as we will say, ignorant of them; that is, I have never heard a declaration of them, and I, am, therefore, under pain of the stigma of excessive fatuity, bound to be non-cognizant.  But as to myself I can speak for myself and, on my honour!  Clara—­to be as direct as possible, even to baldness, and you know I loathe it—­I could not, I repeat, I could not marry Laetitia Dale!  Let me impress it on you.  No flatteries—­we are all susceptible more or less—­no conceivable condition could bring it about; no amount of admiration.  She and I are excellent friends; we cannot be more.  When you see us together, the natural concord of our minds is of course misleading.  She is a woman of genius.  I do not conceal, I profess my admiration of her.  There are times when, I confess, I require a Laetitia Dale to bring me out, give and take.  I am indebted to her for the enjoyment of the duet few know, few can accord with, fewer still are allowed the privilege of playing with a human being.  I am indebted, I own, and I feel deep gratitude; I own to a lively friendship for Miss Dale, but if she is displeasing in the sight of my bride by . . . by the breadth of an eyelash, then . . .”