from you. It was
forbearing and generous on your part, Sir Percival, to send me such a
message. It is only doing you justice to say that I am grateful for
the offer, and I hope and believe that it is only doing myself justice
to tell you that I decline to accept it."

His attentive face relaxed a little. But I saw one of his feet,
softly, quietly, incessantly beating on the carpet under the table, and
I felt that he was secretly as anxious as ever.

"I have not forgotten," she said, "that you asked my father's
permission before you honoured me with a proposal of marriage. Perhaps
you have not forgotten either what I said when I consented to our
engagement? I ventured to tell you that my father's influence and
advice had mainly decided me to give you my promise. I was guided by my
father, because I had always found him the truest of all advisers, the
best and fondest of all protectors and friends. I have lost him now--I
have only his memory to love, but my faith in that dear dead friend has
never been shaken. I believe at this moment, as truly as I ever
believed, that he knew what was best, and that his hopes and wishes
ought to be my hopes and wishes too."

Her voice trembled for the first time. Her restless fingers stole
their way into my lap, and held fast by one of my hands. There was
another moment of silence, and then Sir Percival spoke.

"May I ask," he said, "if I have ever proved myself unworthy of the
trust which it has been hitherto my greatest honour and greatest
happiness to possess?"

"I have found nothing in your conduct to blame," she answered. "You
have always treated me with the same delicacy and the same forbearance.
You have deserved my trust, and, what is of far more importance in my
estimation, you have deserved my father's trust, out of which mine
grew. You have given me no excuse, even if I had wanted to find one,
for asking to be released from my pledge. What I have said so far has
been spoken with the wish to acknowledge my whole obligation to you.
My regard for that obligation, my regard for my father's memory, and my
regard for my own promise, all forbid me to set the example, on my
side, of withdrawing from our present position. The breaking of our
engagement must be entirely your wish and your act, Sir Percival--not
mine."

The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stopped, and he leaned forward
eagerly across the table.

"My act?" he said. "What reason can there be on my si