O'Donovan Florence. "I suppose you can match that yourself.
So the disparity disappears."

The ray of comfort had flickered for a second, and gone out.

"There are unfortunately other disparities," he remarked
gloomily.

"Put a name on them," said she.

"There's her rank."

His impetuous adviser flung up a hand of scorn.

"Her rank, do you say?" she cried. "To the mischief with her
rank. What's rank to love? A woman is only a woman, whether
she calls herself a duchess or a dairy-maid. A woman with any
spirit would marry a bank manager, if she loved him. A man's a
man. You should n't care that for her rank."

"That" was a snap of Mrs. O' Donovan Florence's fingers.

"I suppose you know," said Peter, "that I am a Protestant."

"Are you--you poor benighted creature? Well, that's easily
remedied. Go and get yourself baptised directly."

She waved her hand towards the town, as if to recommend his
immediate procedure in quest of a baptistery.