“With yourself?” she relieved him.  A different manner in a protesting male would have charmed her better.  She excused him, knowing what stood in his way.

“That I scarcely dared to hope,” said Wilfrid, bewildered to see the loose chain he had striven to cast off gather tightly round him.

“You do hope it?”

“I have.”

“You have hoped that I...” (she was not insolent by nature, and corrected the form) “—­to marry me?”

“Yes, Lady Charlotte, I—­I had that hope...if I could have offered this place—­Besworth.  I find that my father will never buy it; I have misunderstood him.”

He fixed his eyes on her, expecting a cool, or an ironical, rejoinder to end the colloquy;—­after which, fair freedom!  She answered, “We may do very well without it.”

Wilfrid was not equal to a start and the trick of rapturous astonishment.  He heard the words like the shooting of dungeon-bolts, thinking, “Oh, heaven! if at the first I had only told the woman I do not love her!” But that sentimental lead had ruined him.  And, on second thoughts, how could he have spoken thus to the point, when they had never previously dealt in anything save sentimental implications?  The folly was in his speaking at all.  The game was now in Lady Charlotte’s hands.

Adela, in another part of the field, had released herself by a consummate use of the same weapon Wilfrid had so clumsily handled.  Her object was to put an end to the absurd and compromising sighs of Edward Buxley; and she did so with the amiable contempt of a pupil dismissing a first instructor in an art “We saw from the beginning it could not be, Edward.”  The enamoured caricaturist vainly protested that he had not seen it from the beginning, and did not now.  He recalled to her that she had said he was ‘her first.’  She admitted the truth, with eyes dwelling on him, until a ringlet got displaced.  Her first.  To be that, sentimental man would perish in the fires.  To have been that will sometimes console him, even when he has lived to see what a thing he was who caught the budding fancy.  The unhappy caricaturist groaned between triumph as a leader, and anguish at the prospect of a possible host of successors.  King in that pure bosom, the thought would come—­King of a mighty line, mayhap!  And sentimental man, awakened to this disastrous view of things, endures shrewder pangs of rivalry in the contemplation of his usurping posterity than if, as do they, he looked forward to a tricked, perfumed, pommaded whipster, pirouetting like any Pierrot—­the enviable image of the one who realized her first dream, and to whom specially missioned angels first opened the golden gates of her heart.

“I have learnt to see, Edward, that you do not honour me with a love you have diverted from one worthier than I am;” and in answer to the question whether, though having to abjure her love, she loved him:  “No, no; it is my Arabella I love.  I love, I will love, no one but her”—­with sundry caressing ejaculations that spring a thirst for kisses, and a tender ‘putting of the case,’ now and then.