"You say so, of course. Women do.—But you confess you want him yourself?"
Mary saw it would be the worst possible policy to be angry with him, especially as she had given him the trouble to come to her, and she must not lose this her last chance.
"I do not want him," she answered, with a smile; "and, if I did, he would never look at one in my position. He would as soon think of marrying the daughter of one of his laborers—and quite right, too—for the one might just be as good as the other."
"Well, now, that's a pity. I would have done a good deal for you —I don't know why, for you're a little humbug if ever there was one! But, if you don't care about the fellow, I don't see why I should take the trouble. Confess—you're a little bit in love with him—ain't you, now? Confess to that, and I will do what I can."
"I can't confess to a lie. I owe Mr. Wardour a debt of gratitude—that is all—but no light thing, you will allow, sir!"
"I don't know; I never tried its weight. Anyhow, I should make haste to be rid of it."
"I have sought to make him this return, but he only fancies me a calumniator. Miss Yolland has been beforehand with me."
"Then, by Jove! I don't see but you're quits with him. If he behaves like that to you, don't you see, it wipes it all out? Upon my soul! I don't see why you should trouble your head about him. Let him take his way, and go to—Sepia."
"But, sir, what a dreadful thing it would be, knowing what she is, to let a man like him throw himself away on her!"
"I don't see it. I've no doubt he's just as bad as she is. We all are; we're all the same. And, if he weren't, it would be the better joke. Besides, you oughtn't to keep up a grudge, don't you know; you ought to let the—the woman have a chance. If he marries her—and that must be her game this time—she'll grow decent, and be respectable ever after, you may be sure—go to church, as you would have her, and all that—never miss a Sunday, I'll lay you a thousand."