She had sweetened the refusal by declaring that, as she could not
marry him--as she could not to be so selfish as to ruin his
prospects--she would never marry at all. She had looked lovely in
the light of the dying sunset as she said all this to him, and
Maurice had believed in her a thousand times more than before, and
had loved her a thousand times deeper. And in a sense his belief was
justified. She did love him, as she had never loved before, but not
well enough to risk poverty again. She had seen enough of that in
her first marriage, and in her degradation and misery had sworn a
bitter oath to herself never again to marry, unless marriage should
sweep her into the broad river of luxury and content. Had Maurice's
financial affairs been all they ought to have been but for his
mother's extravagances, she undoubtedly would have chosen him before
all the world; but Maurice's fortunes were (and are) at a low ebb,
and she would risk nothing. His uncle _might_ die, and then Maurice,
who was his heir, would be a rich man; but his uncle was only
sixty-five, and he might marry again, and---- No, she would refuse!

Rylton had pressed his suit many times, but she had never yielded.
It was always the same argument, she would not ruin _him_. But one
day--only the other day, indeed--she had said something that made
him know she sometimes counted on his uncle's death. She would marry
him then! She would not marry a poor man, however much she loved
him. The thought that she was waiting for his uncle's death revolted
him at the moment, and though he forgave her afterwards, still the
thought rankled.

It hurt him, in a sense, that she could _desire_ death--the death of
another--to create her own content.