"You choose to give yourself to an obscure dog, who'll ill-treat you, and
for whom you don't care a pin's-head; and why? that you may be fenced
from gossip, and nothing more. I thought you were a woman above that
kind of meanness. And this is a common countryman. How will you endure
that kind of life? You were made for elegance and happiness: you shall
have it. I met you before your illness, when you would not listen to me:
I met you after. I knew you at once. Am I changed? I swear to you I
have dreamed of you ever since, and love you. Be as faded as you like;
be hideous, if you like; but come with me. You know my name, and what I
am. Twice I have followed you, and found your name and address; twice I
have written to you, and made the same proposal. And you won't trust to
my honour? When I tell you I love you tenderly? When I give you my
solemn assurance that you shall not regret it? You have been deceived by
one man: why punish me? I know--I feel you are innocent and good. This
is the third time that you have permitted me to speak to you: let it be
final. Say you will trust yourself to me--trust in my honour. Say it
shall be to-morrow. Yes; say the word. To-morrow. My sweet creature--
do!"

The man spoke earnestly, but a third person and extraneous hearer could
hardly avoid being struck by the bathetic conclusion. At least, in tone
it bordered on a fall; but the woman did not feel it so.

She replied: "You mean kindly to me, sir. I thank you indeed, for I am
very friendless. Oh! pardon me: I am quite--quite determined. Go--pray,
forget me."

This was Dahlia's voice.