“What!” She lifted her head sharply.  She saw what he meant at once.  A wild terror filled her heart.  “You mean that you want to throw me over!” she said, breathlessly.

“My dear child, do be reasonable.  Throw you over! of course not—­but what is it all to lead to?  How can we possibly marry?  It was bad enough before, when I had my few hundreds a year.  But now even that is gone.  A captain in a line regiment is not exactly in a position to marry.  Why, I shall hardly be able to keep myself, far less a wife too.  I cannot drag you down to starvation, Helen; it would not be right or honourable to continue to bind you to my broken fortunes.”

She was standing up now before him very white and very resolute.

“Why do you make so many excuses?  You want to be rid of me.”

“My dear child, how unjust you are.”

“Am I unjust?  Wait! let me speak.  How have we altered things?  Could you marry me any more before you lost this money?  You know you could not.  Have we not always agreed to wait till better times?  Why cannot we go on waiting?”

“It would not be fair to tie you.”

He had not the courage to say, “I do not love you—­money or no money, I do not wish to marry you.”  How indeed is a man who is a gentleman to say such a discourteous thing to a lady for whom he has once professed affection?  Maurice Kynaston, at all events, could not say so.

“It would not be fair to tie you; it would be better to let you be free:”  that was all he could find to say.  And then Helen burst forth impetuously,

“I wish to be tied—­I do not want to be free—­I will not marry any other man on earth but you.  Oh!  Maurice, my love, my darling!” casting herself down again at his feet and clasping her arms wildly round him.  “Whom else do I want but you—­whom else have I ever loved?  You know I have always been yours—­always—­long ago, in the old days when you never even gave me a look, and I was so maddened with misery and despair that I did not care what became of me when I married poor Willie, hardly knowing what I was doing, only because my life was so unbearable at home.  And now that I have got you, do you think I will give you up?  And you love me—­surely, surely, you must love me.  You said so once, Maurice—­tell me so again.  You do love me, don’t you?”

What was a man to do?  Maurice moved uneasily under her embrace as though he would withdraw her arms from about his neck.

“Of course,” he said, nervously; “of course, I am fond of you, and all that, but we can’t marry upon less than nothing.  You must know that as well as I do.”

“No; but we can wait.”

“What are we to wait for?” he said, irritably.

“Oh, a hundred things might happen—­your brother might die.”

“God forbid!” he said, pushing her from him, in earnest this time.

“Well, we will hope not that, perhaps; but grandpapa can’t live for ever, and he ought to leave me all his money, and then we should be rich.”