“I am not quite of your opinion,” she said.
“I think you are never quite of any one’s opinion except your own,” he retorted, quickly.
“Well, that’s best for me, don’t you think?” she replied, with something of the same flash of spirit, “seeing that I have, as people say, nobody to think of but myself.”
“And the boy? Meg, you have promised me that you will think of what I said about the boy. He should want for nothing. He should have all the advantages education could give, if you would trust him to me—or to my father, if that would give you more confidence.”
“It is not confidence that is wanting,” she said.
“Then, what is it? It cannot be that you think I speak without warrant. My father will write to you. I will pledge myself to you—as if he were my very own. His future should be my care; his education, his outset in the world——”
Margaret stood looking at him for some time in silence, a faint smile about her lips, which began to quiver, the colour forsaking her cheeks. What she said was so perfectly irrelevant, so idiotic, to the straight-forward mind of the man who was offering her the most unquestionable advantage, and asking nothing but a direct answer—yes, or no—that he could almost have struck her in his impatience. He did metaphorically, with the severity of that flash in his eyes.
“And how there looked him in the face
An angel, beautiful and bright;
And how he knew it was a fiend,
That miserable knight.”
—This was what Margaret said.
“What do you mean?” he cried; “is it I that am the fiend, offering the best I can think of?”