"Ulrica," he said seriously, for since yesterday a wild design and hope had taken possession of him, "Ulrica, need you marry Quorn? Tell me, like a dear girl. You don't love him as much as all that, do you?"
She laughed. "How do you know? I'm not going to tell you."
"It's only for the title," he pleaded, feverishly anxious to arrive at an understanding while the chance lasted. "That's nothing. It can be bought, if you go the right way about it. Ulrica, I don't believe you like him as well as you like me. Tell me you don't. Tell me the truth, dearest."
He seized her hands insistently. There was no doubt about his earnestness and she could hardly laugh at him now.
"I like you well enough," she answered.
"Darling!" he cried with genuine rapture. "Then you'll marry me? Won't you? Say yes. You're your own mistress. Say you'll marry me?"
"How can I?" she laughed evasively. "I've got to marry Quorn."
"Because he's a lord?"
She nodded.
"Is that all?"