She was the daughter of a soap-boiler. The paternal manufactory was in
the grimiest part of the grimy metropolis; but, remarkable to say, she
had as much innate pride, self-respect, and delicacy as though "all
the blood of all the Howards" flowed in those blue veins.

He wasn't a bad sort of young fellow, as young fellows go, and
frantically in love. There was but one question to ask, just eight
days after this--"Will you be my wife?"--but one answer, of
course--"Yes."

But one answer, of course! How would it be possible for a soap-boiler's
daughter to refuse a baronet? And yet his heart had beaten with a fear
that turned him dizzy and sick as he asked it; for she had shrunk away
for one instant, frightened by his fiery wooing, and the sweet face
had grown suddenly and startlingly pale. Is it not the rule that all
maidens shall blush when their lovers ask _the_ question of questions?

The rosy brightness, the smiles, the dimples, all faded out of this
face, and a white look of sudden fear crossed it. The startled eyes
had shrank from his eager, flushed face and looked over the wide sea.
For fully five minutes she never spoke or stirred. To his dying day
that hour was with him--his passionate love, his sick, horrible fear,
his dizzy rapture, when she spoke at last, only one word--"yes." To
his dying day he saw her as he saw her then, in her summery muslin
dress, her gipsy hat, the pale, troubled look chasing the color from
the drooping face.

But the answer was "yes." Was he not a baronet? Was she not a
well-trained English girl? And the ecstasy of pride, of joy, of that