e of the honour you do me, deeply
sensible, only it is impossible. Let us forget this--this mistake,
and be better friends than we have ever been before."

"Ah, Mary," he broke out, "you must not answer me like that, without
consideration. Why should it be impossible?"

"Forgive me," she said gently; "only I am tired now. And
consideration would not alter it. Let me go."

He put one hand out detaining her, and she sank back again wearily
on her chair.

"If you are tired, so much the more reason that you should hear me.
You will not be tired if you marry me. If you are tired, it is
because your life has no great interests: it's frivolous; it is
dribbled away on little things. You don't really care for it--you
are too good for it--the sort of life you lead."

"The sort of life I lead?"

"The ideals of your set, of the people who surround your aunt, of
your aunt herself. The whole thing is barren."

"Are we more frivolous than the rest?" she asked suddenly.

"You are better than the rest," he said promptly. "That is why I
want you to marry me. You were made for great interests--for a large
scene."

"What are they--your great interests, your ideals?" she asked
presently. "How are they so much better than ours?--though I don't
know what ours may be."

"If you marry me, you will find out," he said. "Oh, you shall have
them, I promise you that! I want you immensely, Mary! I am just
going into public life, I mean to go far--and if I have your
support, your sympathy, if you become my wife, I shall go much
farther. And I want to take you away from all this littleness, and
put you where you can be felt, where your character--I can't say how
I admire it--may have scope."

"I am sorry," she said again; "you are very good, and you do me
great honour: but I can only answer as before--it is not possible."

"Ah, but you give no reason!" he cried. "There is no reason."

"Is it not a good enough one that I do not love you?" said the girl.

"Only marry me," he persisted, "and that will come. I don't want to
hurry you, you know. I would rather you would take time and
consider; give me your answer in a week or two's time."

They were silent for a little; Sylvester was now perfectly composed:
his own agitation seemed to have communicated itself to the girl,
whom he watched intently, with his bland, impartial gaze. She had
closed her eyes, was resting her chin on her bouquet, and appeared
to be deeply meditating his words.