Mr. Povey approached her as she sat at the table, shaking her ringlets and looking at her hands.

“You know there’s something between us!” he insisted.

“How should I know there is something between you?  Constance has never said a word to me.  And have you?”

“Well,” said he.  “We’ve hidden nothing.”

“What is there between you and Constance?  If I may ask!”

“That depends on you,” said he again.

“Have you asked her to be your wife?”

“No.  I haven’t exactly asked her to be my wife.”  He hesitated.  “You see—­”

Mrs. Baines collected her forces.  “Have you kissed her?” This in a cold voice.

Mr. Povey now blushed.  “I haven’t exactly kissed her,” he stammered, apparently shocked by the inquisition.  “No, I should not say that I had kissed her.”

It might have been that before committing himself he felt a desire for Mrs. Baines’s definition of a kiss.

“You are very extraordinary,” she said loftily.  It was no less than the truth.

“All I want to know is—­have you got anything against me?” he demanded roughly.  “Because if so—­”

“Anything against you, Mr. Povey?  Why should I have anything against you?”

“Then why can’t we be engaged?”

She considered that he was bullying her.  “That’s another question,” said she.

“Why can’t we be engaged?  Ain’t I good enough?”

The fact was that he was not regarded as good enough.  Mrs. Maddack had certainly deemed that he was not good enough.  He was a solid mass of excellent qualities; but he lacked brilliance, importance, dignity.  He could not impose himself.  Such had been the verdict.

And now, while Mrs. Baines was secretly reproaching Mr. Povey for his inability to impose himself, he was most patently imposing himself on her—­and the phenomenon escaped her!  She felt that he was bullying her, but somehow she could not perceive his power.  Yet the man who could bully Mrs. Baines was surely no common soul!

“You know my very high opinion of you,” she said.

Mr. Povey pursued in a mollified tone.  “Assuming that Constance is willing to be engaged, do I understand you consent?”

“But Constance is too young.”

“Constance is twenty.  She is more than twenty.”

“In any case you won’t expect me to give you an answer now.”

“Why not?  You know my position.”

She did.  From a practical point of view the match would be ideal:  no fault could be found with it on that side.  But Mrs. Baines could not extinguish the idea that it would be a ‘come-down’ for her daughter.  Who, after all, was Mr. Povey?  Mr. Povey was nobody.

“I must think things over,” she said firmly, putting her lips together.  “I can’t reply like this.  It is a serious matter.”

“When can I have your answer?  To-morrow?”

“No—­really—­”