"And why not, Dorothy?"
"I don't know, but I can't. I don't feel that I want to be married at all."
"But it is honourable."
"It's no use, Mr. Gibson; I can't, and you oughtn't to ask me any more."
"Must this be your very last answer?"
"What's the good of going over it all again and again? I can't do it."
"Never, Miss Stanbury?"
"No;—never."
"That is cruel, very cruel. I fear that you doubt my love."
"It isn't cruel, Mr. Gibson. I have a right to have my own feelings, and I can't. If you please, I'll go away now." Then she went, and he was left standing alone in the room. His first feeling was one of anger. Then there came to be mixed with that a good deal of wonder,—and then a certain amount of doubt. He had during the last fortnight discussed the matter at great length with a friend, a gentleman who knew the world, and who took upon himself to say that he specially understood female nature. It was by advice from this friend that he had been instigated to plead his own cause. "Of course she means to accept you," the friend had said. "Why the mischief shouldn't she? But she has some flimsy, old-fashioned country idea that it isn't maidenly to give in at first. You tell her roundly that she must marry you." Mr. Gibson was just reaching that roundness which his friend had recommended when the lady left him and he was alone.