“Oh papa, you are always so good.”

“Of course I am anxious that you should have a home of your own;—­ but let it be how it may I will not quarrel with my child.”

All that evening, and almost all the night, and again on the following morning Mary turned it over in her mind.  She was quite sure that she was not in love with Larry Twentyman; but she was by no means sure that it might not be her duty to accept him without being in love with him.  Of course he must know the whole truth; but she could tell him the truth and then leave it for him to decide.  What right had she to stand in the way of her friends, or to be a burden to them when such a mode of life was offered to her?  She had nothing of her own, and regarded herself as being a dead weight on the family.  And she was conscious in a certain degree of isolation in the household,—­as being her father’s only child by the first marriage.  She would hardly know how to look her father in the face and tell him that she had again refused the man.  But yet there was something awful to her in the idea of giving herself to a man without loving him,—­in becoming a man’s wife when she would fain remain away from him!  Would it be possible that she should live with him while her feelings were of such a nature?  And then she blushed as she lay in the dark, with her cheek on her pillow, when she found herself forced to inquire within her own heart whether she did not love some one else.  She would not own it, and yet she blushed, and yet she thought of it.  If there might be such a man it was not the young clergyman to whom her mother had alluded.

Through all that morning she was very quiet, very pale, and in truth very unhappy.  Her father said no further word to her, and her stepmother had been implored to be equally reticent.  “I shan’t speak another word,” said Mrs. Masters; “her fortune is in her own hands and if she don’t choose to take it I’ve done with her.  One man may lead a horse to water but a hundred can’t make him drink.  It’s just the same with an obstinate pig-headed young woman.”

At three o’clock Mr. Twentyman came and was at once desired to go up to Mary who was waiting for him in the drawing-room.  Mrs. Masters smiled and was gracious as she spoke to him, having for the moment wreathed herself in good humour so that he might go to his wooing in better spirit.  He had learned his lesson by heart as nearly as he was able and began to recite it as soon as he had closed the door.  “So you’re going to Cheltenham on Thursday?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Twentyman.”

“I hope you’ll enjoy your visit there.  I remember Lady Ushant myself very well.  I don’t suppose she will remember me, but you can give her my compliments.”

“I certainly will do that.”

“And now, Mary, what have you got to say to me?” He looked for a moment as though he expected she would say what she had to say at once,—­without further question from him; but he knew that it could not be so and he had prepared his lesson further than that.  “I think you must believe that I really do love you with all my heart.”