revor stood near the open window.

"The day is so mild," he said, "that it is almost summer. Who would
suppose that we were close to December?"

"I have not sent for you, Maurice, to talk of the weather. I have
something much more important to say."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"You remember our last conversation in this room?"

He knitted his brows.

"I remember it," he answered.

"I want to carry it on now; we have come to the second chapter."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Our last conversation was introductory. Now the story opens. You have
behaved very well, quite as well as I could have expected, during the
time that Sharstons and Sir John Wallis have stayed here."

"I am glad you are pleased with my behaviour; but in reality I did not
behave well: I mean according to your lights. I am just as much a rebel
as ever."

"Maurice, my dear boy, try not to talk nonsense; try to look a little
ahead. How old are you?"

"I shall be six-and-twenty early in the year."

"Quite a boy," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a slightly contemptuous voice. "In
ten years you will be six-and-thirty, in twenty six-and-forty. In twenty
years from now you will much rejoice over what--what may not be quite to
your taste at the present moment, though why it should not be--Maurice,
it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that you should not love that
sweet and beautiful girl."

"Which girl do you mean?" said Trevor.

"Don't prevaricate; you know perfectly well to whom I allude."

"Miss Sharston? She is far too good, far too sweet to have her name
bandied between us. I decline to discuss her."

"You must discuss her. You can do so with all possible respect. Kitty
Sharston is to be your wife, Maurice."

"She will never be my wife," he replied. His tone was so firm, he stood
so upright as he spoke, his eyes were fixed so sternly, that just for a
moment Mrs. Aylmer recognised that she had met her match.

"You refuse to do what I wish?" she said then slowly, "I who have done
all for you?"

"I refuse to do this. This is the final straw of all. No wealth is worth
having at the price you offer. I will only marry the woman I love. I
respect, I admire, I reverence Miss Sharston; but I do not love her, nor
does she love me. It is sacrilege to talk of a marriage between us. If I
offered she would refuse; it is not to be thought of; besides--"

"Why do you stop? Go on. It is just like your gratitude. How true are
the poet's words: 'Shar