After this conversation, Lady Lyons lost no time in giving her son warning.
"Nothing is settled," she said. "It may be Margaret, but he is a younger man than I thought, and he may marry; my dear boy, you must do nothing rashly."
He turned the subject with a laugh, in which to speak the truth there was not much merriment. His passion for Margaret was at any rate sincere, and with his frequent opportunities of meeting it became utterly impossible for him to conceal his feelings from her.
Before she could stop him, he was hurriedly telling her his story, looking in her face, which showed vexation and regret, but no passion, no love, no response to his devotion.
He read his answer there, and his despair moved her. She was grieved and dismayed; to her he had always seemed so inconsequent, such a trifler, how could she ever have believed that he was capable of so strong a love?
But her great comfort through it all was the very foundation he put himself upon; he would be guided in all things by her, she would be his good genius, his conscience. He would always do as she wished. She would be his guardian angel! This made refusal easier.
She shrank from his outstretched hands.
"I cannot," she said. "I cannot! It is impossible. I can never never give you the love you ask."
"You think so now, Margaret—I may call you Margaret—you are so young you do not know; will you not try, can you not let me hope?"
"Do you not see," she said, with the soft rebuke in her eyes that an angel might have had, "that love must come? And there is something else."