“Yes,” she said, laughing.  “I am alone,—­a poor unprotected female.  But I fear nothing.  I have strong reason for believing that Lord Brentford is somewhere about.  And Pomfret the butler, who has known me since I was a baby, is a host in himself.”

“With such allies you can have nothing to fear,” he replied, attempting to carry on her little jest.

“Nor even without them, Mr. Finn.  We unprotected females in these days are so self-reliant that our natural protectors fall off from us, finding themselves to be no longer wanted.  Now with you,—­what can I fear?”

“Nothing,—­as I hope.”

“There used to be a time, and that not so long ago either, when young gentlemen and ladies were thought to be very dangerous to each other if they were left alone.  But propriety is less rampant now, and upon the whole virtue and morals, with discretion and all that kind of thing, have been the gainers.  Don’t you think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“All the same, but I don’t like to be caught in a trap, Mr. Finn.”

“In a trap?”

“Yes;—­in a trap.  Is there no trap here?  If you will say so, I will acknowledge myself to be a dolt, and will beg your pardon.”

“I hardly know what you call a trap.”

“You were told that I was here?”

He paused a moment before he replied.  “Yes, I was told.”

“I call that a trap.”

“Am I to blame?”

“I don’t say that you set it,—­but you use it.”

“Miss Effingham, of course I have used it.  You must know,—­I think you must know that I have that to say to you which has made me long for such an opportunity as this.”

“And therefore you have called in the assistance of your friend.”

“It is true.”

“In such matters you should never talk to any one, Mr. Finn.  If you cannot fight your own battle, no one can fight it for you.”

“Miss Effingham, do you remember our ride at Saulsby?”

“Very well;—­as if it were yesterday.”

“And do you remember that I asked you a question which you have never answered?”

“I did answer it,—­as well as I knew how, so that I might tell you a truth without hurting you.”

“It was necessary,—­is necessary that I should be hurt sorely, or made perfectly happy.  Violet Effingham, I have come to you to ask you to be my wife;—­to tell you that I love you, and to ask for your love in return.  Whatever may be my fate, the question must be asked, and an answer must be given.  I have not hoped that you should tell me that you loved me—­”

“For what then have you hoped?”

“For not much, indeed;—­but if for anything, then for some chance that you might tell me so hereafter.”

“If I loved you, I would tell you so now,—­instantly.  I give you my word of that.”

“Can you never love me?”

“What is a woman to answer to such a question?  No;—­I believe never.  I do not think I shall ever wish you to be my husband.  You ask me to be plain, and I must be plain.”