"No, I don't," he said, stoutly.
She made a movement of impatience. "Oh yes, it is—quite," she said. "However rich you are, you can't go on forever being blackmailed. Every one would know us, or else you'd have to give up Charles, and even then I expect you'd be obliged to pay twenty pounds every three-quarters of an hour. It can't be done. And, besides, we should never know a moment's peace. Wherever we went we should imagine a blackmailer behind every bush, and every one we spoke to might be a detective. It's no use. I must go back. Do say you know I must."
"I don't."
"Well, say you know I don't want to."
"I can't say that . . . because, if you don't want to . . . there's always the old alternative, you know." He was looking straight before him at the majestic form of the Earl of Chatham.
"What alternative?"
"Marrying me," he said, humbly. "Do. I don't believe that you'd regret it."
"When I marry," she said, strongly, "it won't be just because I want to get myself out of a scrape."
"I hoped there might be other considerations," he said, still gazing at the marble. "You were happy yesterday. You said so."