“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.

“This?”

“Come, my dearest girl!” Wilfrid soothed her.  “I can help you, and will, if you’ll take advice.  I’ve always known your heart was generous and tender, under that ice you wear so well.  How long has this been going on?”

“Wilfrid!”

“You want plain speech?”

She wanted that still less.

“We’ll call it ‘this,’” he said.  “I have heard of it, guessed it, and now see it.  How far have you pledged yourself in ‘this?’”

“How far?”

Wilfrid held silent.  Finding that her echo was not accepted as an answer, she moaned his name lovingly.  It touched his heart, where a great susceptibility to passion lay.  As if the ghost of Emilia were about him, he kissed his sister’s hand, and could not go on with his cruel interrogations.

His next question was dew of relief to her.

“Has your Emilia been quite happy, of late?”

“Oh, quite, dear! very.  And sings with more fire.”

“She’s cheerful?”

“She does not romp.  Her eyes are full and bright.”

“She’s satisfied with everything here?”

“How could she be otherwise?”

“Yes, yes!  You weren’t severe on her for that escapade—­I mean, when she ran away from Lady Gosstre’s?”

“We scarcely alluded to the subject, or permitted her to.”

“Or permitted her to!” Wilfrid echoed, with a grimace.  “And she’s cheerful now?”

“Quite.”

“I mean, she doesn’t mope?”

“Why should she?”

Cornelia had been too hard-pressed to have suspicion the questions were an immense relief.

Wilfrid mused gloomily.  Cornelia spoke further of Emilia, and her delight in the visits of Mr. Powys, who spent hours with her, like a man fascinated.  She flowed on, little aware that she was fast restoring to Wilfrid all his judicial severity.