n this case, I am decidedly sentimental: I love my
country. I do love quiet, rural England. Well, and I love beauty, I love
simplicity. All that will be destroyed by the refuse of the towns
flooding the land--barring accidents, as Lukin says. There seems nothing
else to save us.'

Redworth acquiesced. 'Nothing.'

'And you do not regret it?' he was asked.

'Not a bit. We have already exchanged opinions on the subject. Simplicity
must go, and the townsman meet his equal in the countryman. As for
beauty, I would sacrifice that to circulate gumption. A bushelful of
nonsense is talked pro and con: it always is at an innovation. What we
are now doing, is to take a longer and a quicker stride, that is all.'

'And establishing a new field for the speculator.'

'Yes, and I am one, and this is the matter I wanted to discuss with you,
Lady Dunstane,' said Redworth, bending forward, the whole man devoted to
the point of business.

She declared she was complimented; she felt the compliment, and trusted
her advice might be useful, faintly remarking that she had a woman's
head: and 'not less' was implied as much as 'not more,' in order to give
strength to her prospective opposition.

All his money, she heard, was down on the railway table. He might within
a year have a tolerable fortune: and, of course, he might be ruined. He
did not expect it; still he fronted the risks. 'And now,' said he, 'I
come to you for counsel. I am not held among my acquaintances to be a
marrying man, as it's called.'

He paused. Lady Dunstane thought it an occasion to praise him for his
considerateness.

'You involve no one but yourself, you mean?' Her eyes shed approval.
'Still the day may come . . . I say only that it may: and the wish to
marry is a rosy colouring . . . equal to a flying chariot in conducting
us across difficulties and obstructions to the deed. And then one may
have to regret a previous rashness.'

These practical men are sometimes obtuse: she dwelt on that vision of the
future.

He listened, and resumed: 'My view of marriage is, that no man should ask
a woman to be his wife unless he is well able to support her in the
comforts, not to say luxuries, she is accustomed to.' His gaze had
wandered to the desk; it fixed there. 'That is Miss Merion's writing,' he
said.

'The letter?' said Lady Dunstane, and she stretched out her hand to press
down a leaf of it. 'Yes; it is from her.'

'Is she quite well?'

'I suppose she is. S