“Yes, and he says that if—it suits us both, he is quite willing; that, in fact, he would be very pleased to see you so well provided for.”
Stella could not say that she did not understand, the falsehood was too obvious. So she merely went on looking, a circumstance from which Mr. Layard drew false auguries.
“You know what I mean, don’t you?” he jerked out.
She shook her head.
“I mean—I mean that I love you, that you have given me what this horrid thing was talking about just now—understanding to the heart; yes, that’s it, understanding to the heart. Will you marry me, Stella? I will make you a good husband, and it isn’t a bad place, and all that, and though your father says he has little to leave you, you will be treated as liberally as though you were a lady in your own right.”
Stella smiled a little.
“Will you marry me?” he asked again.
“I am afraid that I must answer no, Mr. Layard.”
Then the poor man broke out into a rhapsody of bitter disappointment, genuine emotion, and passionate entreaty.
“It is no use, Mr. Layard,” said Stella at last. “Indeed, I am much obliged to you. You have paid me a great compliment, but it is not possible that I should become your wife, and the sooner that is clear the better for us both.”