“Well, it’s not marriage yet.  I congratulate you on your offer.”

“I thank you.”

“You accept it, of course.”

“I reject it, certainly.”

After this preliminary passage, Wilfrid remained silent long enough for Cornelia to feel uneasy.

“I want you to congratulate me also,” he recommenced.  “We poor fellows don’t have offers, you know.  To be frank, I think Lady Charlotte Chillingworth will have me, if—­She’s awfully fond of Besworth, and I need not tell you that as she has position in the world, I ought to show something in return.  When you wrote about Besworth, I knew it was as good as decided.  I told her so and—­Well, I fancy there’s that sort of understanding between us.  She will have me when...  You know how the poorer members of the aristocracy are situated.  Her father’s a peer, and has a little influence.  He might push me; but she is one of a large family; she has nothing.  I am certain you will not judge of her as common people might.  She does me a particular honour.”

“Is she not much older than you, Wilfrid?” said Cornelia.

“Or, in other words,” he added, “is she not a very mercenary person?”

“That, I did not even imply.”

“Honestly, was it not in your head?”

“Now you put it so plainly, I do say, it strikes me disagreeably; I have heard of nothing like it.”

“Do you think it unreasonable that I should marry into a noble family?”

“That is, assuredly, not my meaning.”

“Nevertheless, you are, on the whole, in favour of beggarly alliances.”

“No, Wilfrid.”

“Why do you reject this offer that has been made to you?”

Cornelia flushed and trembled; the traitorous feint had thrown her off her guard.  She said, faltering: 

“Would you have me marry one I do not love?”

“Well, well!” He drew back.  “You are going to do your best to stop the purchase of Besworth?”

“No; I am quiescent.”

“Though I tell you how deeply it concerns me!”

“Wilfrid, my own brother!” (Cornelia flung herself before him, catching his hand,) “I wish you to be loved, first of all.  Think of the horror of a loveless marriage, however gilded!  Does a woman make stipulations ere she gives her hand?  Does not love seek to give, to bestow?  I wish you to marry well, but chiefly that you should be loved.”

Wilfrid pressed her head in both his hands.

“I never saw you look so handsome,” he said.  “You’ve got back your old trick of blushing, too!  Why do you tremble?  By the way, you seem to have been learning a great deal about that business, lately?”

“What business?”

“Love.”

A river of blood overflowed her fair cheeks.

“How long has this been?” his voice came to her.

There was no escape.  She was at his knees, and must look up, or confess guilt.