“Yes.”

“And gradually you suddenly discovered, since you came here, that you did not intend it, if you could find a means of avoiding it.”

“Oh, madam, yes, it is true.”

“Now comes the test.  And, my lovely Middleton, your flaming cheeks won’t suffice for me this time.  The old serpent can blush like an innocent maid on occasion.  You are to speak, and you are to tell me in six words why that was:  and don’t waste one on ‘madam’, or ’Oh!  Mrs. Mountstuart’ Why did you change?”

“I came—­When I came I was in some doubt.  Indeed I speak the truth.  I found I could not give him the admiration he has, I dare say, a right to expect.  I turned—­it surprised me; it surprises me now.  But so completely!  So that to think of marrying him is . . .”

“Defer the simile,” Mrs. Mountstuart interposed.  “If you hit on a clever one, you will never get the better of it.  Now, by just as much as you have outstripped my limitation of words to you, you show me you are dishonest.”

“I could make a vow.”

“You would forswear yourself.”

“Will you help me?”

“If you are perfectly ingenuous, I may try.”

“Dear lady, what more can I say?”

“It may be difficult.  You can reply to a catechism.”

“I shall have your help?”

“Well, yes; though I don’t like stipulations between friends.  There is no man living to whom you could willingly give your hand?  That is my question.  I cannot possibly take a step unless I know.  Reply briefly:  there is or there is not.”  Clara sat back with bated breath, mentally taking the leap into the abyss, realizing it, and the cold prudence of abstention, and the delirium of the confession.  Was there such a man?  It resembled freedom to think there was:  to avow it promised freedom.

“Oh, Mrs. Mountstuart!”

“Well?”

“You will help me?”

“Upon my word, I shall begin to doubt your desire for it.”

“Willingly give my hand, madam?”

“For shame!  And with wits like yours, can’t you perceive where hesitation in answering such a question lands you?”

“Dearest lady, will you give me your hand? may I whisper?”

“You need not whisper; I won’t look.”

Clara’s voice trembled on a tense chord.

“There is one . . . compared with him I feel my insignificance.  If I could aid him.”

“What necessity have you to tell me more than that there is one?”

“Ah, madam, it is different:  not as you imagine.  You bid me be scrupulously truthful:  I am:  I wish you to know the different kind of feeling it is from what might be suspected from . . . a confession.  To give my hand, is beyond any thought I have ever encouraged.  If you had asked me whether there is one whom I admire—­yes, I do.  I cannot help admiring a beautiful and brave self-denying nature.  It is one whom you must pity, and to pity casts you beneath him:  for you pity him because it is his nobleness that has been the enemy of his fortunes.  He lives for others.”