"Address the earl, your father, dearest Lady Louisa—aw, aw—in writing, or verbally?" was the cool and rapid question.
"Neither verbally nor in writing," said she, rising, and assuming a dignity of bearing that made Berkeley feel himself intolerably little.
"Aw, aw—the dooce! Then how?" he asked, having recourse to his eyeglass.
"I was about to say that I thank you, Mr. Berkeley—thank you very much indeed—for the great honour you do me in addressing me thus, and in making me such an offer; but you must strive to dismiss all such thoughts from your breast in future, as I could never, never love you! Pardon me an avowal so very painful, and permit me to leave you."
Her coolness, and almost unmoved bearing, piqued Berkeley, and wounded his self-esteem, which was inordinate.
"Your bridal flowers," said he, with a bitter smile, "must be blended with the faded strawberry leaves of some Anglo-Norman line, I presume?"
"Not so, sir. I have hopes, I admit, but they are not quite so high," she replied, with a calm and steady glance, though her short upper lip quivered with suppressed pride and anger.
"In—deed!" sneered Berkeley, as his habitual insolence came now thoroughly to his aid; "and so you once and for all actually refuse me, Lady Loftus?"
"I grieve to say, sir, that I do—once and for ever. Let us endeavour to forget this very unpleasant scene, and, if possible, be as before—friends."
"And for whom do you refuse me?" he demanded, as pride and jealousy rendered him blind to all future consequences.