Her heart stood still, quite still.  London was so full of ugly stories about things done by men of his rank—­stories of transgressions, of follies, of cruelties.  So many were open secrets.  There were men, who, even while keeping up an outward aspect of respectability, were held accountable for painful things.  The lives of well-born struggling women were so hard.  Sometimes such nice ones went under because temptation was so great.  But she had not thought, she could not have dreamed——­

She got on her feet and stood upright before him.  He rose with her, and because she was a tall woman their eyes were on a level.  Her own big and honest ones were wide and full of crystal tears.

“Oh!” she said in helpless woe.  “Oh!”

It was perhaps the most effective thing a woman ever did.  It was so simple that it was heartbreaking.  She could not have uttered a word, he was such a powerful and great person, and she was so without help or stay.

Since the occurring of this incident, she has often been spoken of as a beauty, and she has, without doubt, had her fine hours; but Walderhurst has never told her that the most beautiful moment of her life was undoubtedly that in which she stood upon the heather, tall and straight and simple, her hands hanging by her sides, her large, tear-filled hazel eyes gazing straight into his.  In the femininity of her frank defencelessness there was an appeal to nature’s self in man which was not quite of earth.  And for several seconds they stood so and gazed into each other’s souls—­the usually unilluminated nobleman and the prosaic young woman who lodged on a third floor back in Mortimer Street.

Then, quite quickly, something was lighted in his eyes, and he took a step toward her.

“Good heavens!” he demanded.  “What do you suppose I am asking of you?”

“I don’t—­know,” she answered; “I don’t—­know.”

“My good girl,” he said, even with some irritation, “I am asking you to be my wife.  I am asking you to come and live with me in an entirely respectable manner, as the Marchioness of Walderhurst.”

Emily touched the breast of her brown linen blouse with the tips of her fingers.

“You—­are—­asking—­me?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered.  His glass had dropped out of his eye, and he picked it up and replaced it.  “There is Black with the cart,” he said.  “I will explain myself with greater clearness as we drive back to Mallowe.”

The basket of fish was put in the cart, and Emily Fox-Seton was put in.  Then the marquis got in himself, and took the reins from his groom.

“You will walk back, Black,” he said, “by that path,” with a wave of the hand in a diverging direction.