e
would she have been then? But he had come to her. There he was, still
poking about with his stick, waiting for her, and she must answer
him. And he was the eldest son of a peer,--an enormous match for her,
very proper in all respects; such a man, that if she should accept
him, everybody around her would regard her fortune in life as
miraculously successful. He was not such a man that any one would
point at her and say,--"There; see another of them who has sold
herself for money and a title!" Mr. Glascock was not an Apollo, not
an admirable Crichton; but he was a man whom any girl might have
learned to love. Now he had asked her to be his wife, and it was
necessary that she should answer him. He sat there waiting for her
very patiently, still poking about the point of his stick.

Did she really love him? Though she was so pressed by consideration
of time, she did find a moment in which to ask herself the question.
With a quick turn of an eye she glanced at him, to see what he was
like. Up to this moment, though she knew him well, she could have
given no details of his personal appearance. He was a better-looking
man than Hugh Stanbury,--so she told herself with a passing thought;
but he lacked--he lacked; what was it that he lacked? Was it youth,
or spirit, or strength; or was it some outward sign of an inward gift
of mind? Was it that he was heavy while Hugh was light? Was it that
she could find no fire in his eye, while Hugh's eyes were full of
flashing? Or was it that for her, especially for her, Hugh was the
appointed staff and appropriate wall of protection? Be all that as it
might, she knew at the moment that she did love, not this man, but
that other who was writing articles for the Daily Record. She must
refuse the offer that was so brilliant, and give up the idea of
reigning as queen at Monkhams.

"Oh, Mr. Glascock," she said, "I ought to answer you more quickly."

"No, dearest; not more quickly than suits you. Nothing ever in this
world can be more important both to you and to me. If you want more
time to think of it, take more time."

"No, Mr. Glascock; I do not. I don't know why I should have paused.
Is not the truth best?"

"Yes,--certainly the truth is best."

"I do not--love you. Pray, pray understand me."

"I understand it too well, Miss Rowley." The stick was still going,
and the eyes more intently fixed than ever on something opposite.

"I do like you; I like you very much. And I am so grate