“Getaway with you!” was the dear lady’s warm expostulation.  “What has money to do with the question, if a man’s in love?  But that’s the English of it—­there you are with your cold-blooded calculation.  You chain up your natural impulses as if they were dangerous beasts.  Her money never saved you from succumbing to her enchantments.  Why should it bar you from declaring your passion.”

“There’s a sort of tendency in society,” said Peter, “to look upon the poor man who seeks the hand of a rich woman as a fortunehunter.”

“A fig for the opinion of society,” she cried.  “The only opinion you should consider is the opinion of the woman you adore.  I was an heiress myself; and when Teddy O’Donovan proposed to me, upon my conscience I believe the sole piece of property he possessed in the world was a corkscrew.  So much for her ducats!”

Peter laughed.

“Men, after coffee, are frequently in the habit of smoking,” said she.  “You have my sanction for a cigarette.  It will keep you in countenance.”

“Thank you,” said Peter, and lit his cigarette.

“And surely, it’s a countenance you’ll need, to be going on like that about her money.  However—­if you can find a ray of comfort in the information—­small good will her future husband get of it, even if he is a fortunehunter:  for she gives the bulk of it away in charity, and I ’m doubtful if she keeps two thousand a year for her own spending.”

“Really?” said Peter; and for a breathing-space it seemed to him that there was a ray of comfort in the information.

“Yes, you may rate her at two thousand a year,” said Mrs. O’Donovan Florence.  “I suppose you can match that yourself.  So the disparity disappears.”

The ray of comfort had flickered for a second, and gone out.

“There are unfortunately other disparities,” he remarked gloomily.

“Put a name on them,” said she.

“There’s her rank.”

His impetuous adviser flung up a hand of scorn.

“Her rank, do you say?” she cried.  “To the mischief with her rank.  What’s rank to love?  A woman is only a woman, whether she calls herself a duchess or a dairy-maid.  A woman with any spirit would marry a bank manager, if she loved him.  A man’s a man.  You should n’t care that for her rank.”

“That” was a snap of Mrs. O’ Donovan Florence’s fingers.

“I suppose you know,” said Peter, “that I am a Protestant.”

“Are you—­you poor benighted creature?  Well, that’s easily remedied.  Go and get yourself baptised directly.”

She waved her hand towards the town, as if to recommend his immediate procedure in quest of a baptistery.

Peter laughed again.

“I ’m afraid that’s more easily said than done.”

“Easy!” she exclaimed.  “Why, you’ve only to stand still and let yourself be sprinkled.  It’s the priest who does the work.  Don’t tell me,” she added, with persuasive inconsequence, “that you’ll allow a little thing like being in love with a woman to keep you back from professing the true faith.”