"I must confess I do not."

He coughed rather uneasily; turned to the table, and poured out
another glass of sherry--his hand trembling a little as he did so. He
drank off the wine at a draught; cleared his throat three or four
times after it; and then spoke again.

"Well, to be still plainer, this is how the matter stands: If you were
a party in our rank of life, coming to court Margaret with your
father's full approval and permission when once you had consented to
the year's engagement, everything would be done and settled; the
bargain would have been struck on both sides; and there would be an
end of it. But, situated as you are, I can't stop here safely--I mean,
I can't end the agreement exactly in this way."

He evidently felt that he got fluent on wine; and helped himself, at
this juncture, to another glass.

"You will see what I am driving at, my dear Sir, directly," he
continued. "Suppose now, you came courting my daughter for a year, as
we settled; and suppose your father found it out--we should keep it a
profound secret of course: but still, secrets are sometimes found out,
nobody knows how. Suppose, I say, your father got scent of the thing,
and the match was broken off; where do you think Margaret's reputation
would be? If it happened with somebody in her own station, we might
explain it all, and be believed: but happening with somebody in yours,
what would the world say? Would the world believe you had ever
intended to marry her? That's the point--that's the point precisely."

"But the case could not happen--I am astonished you can imagine it