"Is the lady any one with whom I am acquainted?"
"No. She's a doctor's daughter. She lives down in Hampshire, and her father's dead."
"What is she like? Pretty, of course."
"Not so pretty as you, Cis."
"You have no right to say that, sir. If you love her, as you say you do, she ought to be perfection in your eyes."
"She is perfection in my eyes, but for all that she's not so pretty as you are. I don't know," added Slingsby, musingly, "that I should care to have a very pretty woman for my wife. I might grow jealous, you know, and that must be a jolly uncomfortable sort of feeling."
"Does your father know anything of this affair?"
"No--there's the rub. I dare not tell him on any account. His heart is set on my marrying you, and as I'm altogether dependent on him, and shall be for three more years, it would never do to let him into the secret. But you can help me in my difficulty, Cis?"
"In what way can I help you, Slingsby?"
"By not letting any one know that there is nothing serious between you and me. You have not refused me yet, have you, because I have never made you an offer?"