"I promised myself nothing. On my word of honour as a gentleman, sir, I have not been holding out any kind of hopes or promises to myself. I believe," added the young man, with the open candour so characteristic of him, "that I have been too happy in the present, in Miss Cleeve's daily society--for hardly a day passed that we did not see each
other--to cast so much as a thought to the future."
"Well, sir, what excuse have you to make for this behaviour? Do you see its folly?"
"I see it now. I see it for the first time, Colonel Cleeve.
For--I--suppose--you will not let me aspire to win her?"
The words were given with slow deprecation: as if he hardly dared to speak them.
"What do you think, yourself, about it?" sharply asked the Colonel. "Do you consider yourself a suitable match for Miss Cleeve? In any way? In any way, Mr. Andinnian?"
"I am afraid not, sir."
"You are afraid not! Good Heavens! Your family--pardon me for alluding to it, Mr. Andinnian, but there are moments in a lifetime, and this is one, when plain speaking becomes a necessity. Your family have but risen from the ranks, sir, as we soldiers say, and not much above the ranks either. Miss Cleeve is Miss Cleeve: my daughter, and a peer's grand-daughter."
"It is all true, sir."
"So much for that unsuitability. And then we come to means. What are yours, Mr. Andinnian?"
The young man lifted his head and his honest grey eyes to the
half-affrighted but generally calm face. He could but tell the truth at all times without equivocation.