his temper was good, and he would doubtless be an amiable, manageable
husband.

"Brigit,--let's go out, I,--there is something I want to tell you." His
voice shook a little with real emotion, and though he had undoubtedly
drunk more than was good for him, there was about the man a certain
dignity, compounded of his breeding, his respect for her, and his
sincerity.

She did not move, and her small, narrow face went white. He would take
her--wherever she asked him; she would be able to fly away from her
mother and her mother's friends. After a long pause, which he bore well,
she bowed her head slowly. "Yes, I will get a scarf," and leaving him
she left the room. Her face was set and a little sullen as she came back
with a long silk scarf on her arm. Carron met her near the door. "Made
up your mind, have you?" he asked, with deliberate insolence. "Better
wait till to-morrow, my dear--he's half drunk."

She hated Carron. Hated him with an intensity that few women know. At
that moment she would have liked to kill him. But knowing a better
weapon, and rejoicing in her cruelty, she used it. "Poor old Gerald,"
she said, smiling at him, "no man over fifty can afford the luxury of
jealousy."

Then she joined Pontefract.

He made his proposal succinctly and well, and without any confusion she
accepted him. "No--you may not kiss me to-night," she added. "You may
come for that--to-morrow. Now would you mind going? I--I want to be
alone."