"I don't want to grow old at all; no woman ever does, you stupid thing. As to becoming your wife, I never may be. You know that."
"No, I don't, sweetest." Ralph possessed himself of her frock hem and kissed it fervently. "I know that your father doesn't think I am a good match for you, and that your mother wishes you to marry a title. All the same, I intend to have my own way and make you Mrs. Shawe for a time."
"For a time!" cried Audrey, indignantly. "What do you mean, Ralph?"
"Until you are Lady Shawe, dearest, or perhaps Lady Bleakleigh. That is the Somerset village where I was born," explained Ralph. "My father is the squire. When I get my title--and I shall some day, by sheer dint of brain-power--I shall take that title; then you will be--"
But Audrey was not listening. "Bleakleigh--Bleakleigh," she muttered; "where have I heard that name?"
"From your father," said Shawe, promptly. "He told me one evening, in a moment of expansion after dinner, that he came from Bleakleigh, starting as a farm labourer to end as Sir Joseph Branwin, the millionaire."
"He won't end at that," said Audrey, gravely; "papa is too ambitious. Like yourself, he intends to gain a Peerage, and may some day be Lord Bleakleigh, before you can secure the title."
"Well, it doesn't matter, so long as I secure you."
"You won't, if my parents are to be considered."
"Then why consider them?" asked Ralph, coolly. "I know that they both want you to marry a Duke or an Earl, so as to forward their plans for social advancement; but I don't see why you should be sacrificed in this way."