Hardinge was right, he will never like her. She is only a stay, a
hindrance to him!

"I understand," says she sorrowfully. "He will not care--_ever._ I
shall be always a trouble to him. He----"

"Why think of him?" says Sir Hastings contemptuously. He leans
towards her; fired by her beauty, that is now enhanced by the regret
that lies upon her pretty lips, he determines on pushing his cause
at once. "If _he_ cannot appreciate you, others can--_I_ can. I----"
He pauses; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion as
this, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. To tell a woman
he loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, but
now, when at last he is in earnest--when poverty has driven him to
seek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills--he finds
himself tongue-tied; and not only by the importance of the
situation, so far as money goes, but by the clear, calm, waiting
eyes of Perpetua.

"Yes?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answer
she has demanded, "You mean that he---- You _too_ think that he
dislikes me?" There is woe in the pale, small, lovely face.

"Very probably. He was always eccentric. Perfect nuisance at home.
None of us could understand him. I shouldn't in the least wonder if
he had taken a rooted aversion to you, and taken it badly too! Miss
Wynter! it quite distresses me to think that it should be _my
_brother, of all men, who has failed to see your charm. A charm
that----" He pauses effectively, to let his really fine eyes have
some play. The conservatory is sufficiently dark to disguise the