this had to a certain
extent oppressed him. But he did not deduce from this any assurance
that his aspirations were in vain. He saw that she was angry with
him. Might she not be so because he had so long tampered with her
feelings--might it not arise from his having, as he knew was the
case, caused her name to be bruited about in conjunction with his own
without having given her the opportunity of confessing to the world
that henceforth their names were to be one and the same? Poor lady.
He had within him a certain Christian conscience-stricken feeling
of remorse on this head. It might be that he had wronged her by his
tardiness. He had, however, at the present moment imbibed too much
of Mr. Thorne's champagne to have any inward misgivings. He was right
in repeating the boast of Lady Macbeth: he was not drunk, but he was
bold enough for anything. It was a pity that in such a state he could
not have encountered Mrs. Proudie.

"You must permit me to attend you," said he; "I could not think of
allowing you to go alone."

"Indeed you must, Mr. Slope," said Eleanor still very stiffly, "for
it is my special wish to be alone."

The time for letting the great secret escape him had already come.
Mr. Slope saw that it must be now or never, and he was determined
that it should be now. This was not his first attempt at winning a
fair lady. He had been on his knees, looked unutterable things with
his eyes, and whispered honeyed words before this. Indeed, he was
somewhat an adept at these things, and had only to adapt to the
perhaps different taste of Mrs. Bold the well-remembered rhapsodies
which had once so much gratified Olivia Proudie.

"Do not ask me to leave you, Mrs. Bold," said he with an impassioned
look, impassioned and sanctified as well, with that sort of look
which is not uncommon with gentlemen of Mr. Slope's school and which
may perhaps be called the tender-pious. "Do not ask me to leave you
till I have spoken a few words with which my heart is full--which I
have come hither purposely to say."

Eleanor saw how it was now. She knew directly what it was she was
about to go through, and very miserable the knowledge made her. Of
course she could refuse Mr. Slope, and there would be an end of
that, one might say. But there would not be an end of it, as far as
Eleanor was concerned. The very fact of Mr. Slope's making an offer
to her would be a triumph to the archdeacon and, in a great measure,
a vindication of Mr. Ar