Stella looked at him with a smile.
"Is it so serious," she said, in that low, murmuring voice which a woman uses when she speaks to the man she loves.
"Very," he said, gravely, but with the bold, defiant look in his eyes which presaged some bold, defiant deed. "Stella, I want you to marry me."
Stella started, and her hand closed spasmodically on his.
"I want you to marry me soon," he went on—"at once."
"Oh, no, no!" she said, in a whisper, and her hand trembled in his.
Marry him at once! The thought was so full of immensity that it overwhelmed her.
"But it must be 'Yes! yes! yes!'" he said. "My darling, I find that I cannot live without you. I cannot! I cannot! You will take pity on me!"
Take pity on him—the great Lord Leycester; the most popular man in London; the heir to Wyndward; the hero of whom Frank had been speaking so enthusiastically; while she was but Stella Etheridge, the painter's penniless niece.
"What am I to say? what can I say?" she said, in a low voice, her eyes downcast, her heart beating fast.