"Write to Lord Hope; tell him the truth—that you have won the respect of men by your actions, and have, with your own energies, acquired wealth enough to make you a fair match in that respect for his daughter. Make no allusion to the past; he is proud, and terribly sensitive on that point, and might suspect you of making claims to equality because of it."
Hepworth smiled as he stood before her in the moonlight, and she saw it. Wide travel and experience among men had led him to think that, after all, the highest level of humanity did not always range with hereditary titles; but he only said, very calmly:
"Lord Hope cannot accuse me justly of aspiring where he is concerned."
Rachael felt the hot crimson leap to her face. Did Hepworth dare to equal himself with Lord Hope, the one great idol of her own perverted life? She answered, angrily, forgetting that the sinner was her only brother:
"Lord Hope need have no fear that any man living will so aspire."
"Poor foolish girl!" said Hepworth, feeling the flash of her black eyes, and touched with pity, rather than anger, by her quick resentment. "Do not let us quarrel about Hope. If he makes you happy, I have nothing to say against him."
"Happy! happy!"
Rachael shrank back in her seat, uttering these two words in a voice so full of pathetic sorrow, that it brought the pain of coming tears into Hepworth's eyes. He was glad to turn the subject.
"Then you are not willing that I should go away?"
"It would almost kill me to lose you again, Hepworth."