To which Clare replied, “I cannot marry two husbands, Richard.”

“Will you refuse to marry this old man?”

“I must do as mama wishes.”

“Then you’re going to marry an old man—­a man you don’t love, and can’t love!  Oh, good God! do you know what you’re doing?” He flung about in a fury.  “Do you know what it is?  Clare!” he caught her two hands violently, “have you any idea of the horror you’re going to commit?”

She shrank a little at his vehemence, but neither blushed nor stammered:  answering:  “I see nothing wrong in doing what mama thinks right, Richard.”

“Your mother!  I tell you it’s an infamy, Clare!  It’s a miserable sin!  I tell you, if I had done such a thing I would not live an hour after it.  And coldly to prepare for it! to be busy about your dresses!  They told me when I came in that you were with the milliner.  To be smiling over the horrible outrage! decorating yourself!"...

“Dear Richard,” said Clare, “you will make me very unhappy.”

“That one of my blood should be so debased!” he cried, brushing angrily at his face.  “Unhappy!  I beg you to feel for yourself, Clare.  But I suppose,” and he said it scornfully, “girls don’t feel this sort of shame.”

She grew a trifle paler.

“Next to mama, I would wish to please you, dear Richard.”

“Have you no will of your own?” he exclaimed.

She looked at him softly; a look he interpreted for the meekness he detested in her.

“No, I believe you have none!” he added.  “And what can I do?  I can’t step forward and stop this accursed marriage.  If you would but say a word I would save you; but you tie my hands.  And they expect me to stand by and see it done!”

“Will you not be there, Richard?” said Clare, following the question with her soft eyes.  It was the same voice that had so thrilled him on his marriage morn.

“Oh, my darling Clare!” he cried in the kindest way he had ever used to her, “if you knew how I feel this!” and now as he wept she wept, and came insensibly into his arms.

“My darling Clare!” he repeated.

She said nothing, but seemed to shudder, weeping.

“You will do it, Clare?  You will be sacrificed?  So lovely as you are, too!...  Clare! you cannot be quite blind.  If I dared speak to you, and tell you all....  Look up.  Can you still consent?”

“I must not disobey mama,” Clare murmured, without looking up from the nest her cheek had made on his bosom.

“Then kiss me for the last time,” said Richard.  “I’ll never kiss you after it, Clare.”

He bent his head to meet her mouth, and she threw her arms wildly round him, and kissed him convulsively, and clung to his lips, shutting her eyes, her face suffused with a burning red.

Then he left her, unaware of the meaning of those passionate kisses.

Argument with Mrs. Doria was like firing paper-pellets against a stone wall.  To her indeed the young married hero spoke almost indecorously, and that which his delicacy withheld him from speaking to Clare.  He could provoke nothing more responsive from the practical animal than “Pooh-pooh!  Tush, tush! and Fiddlededee!”