She watched him to see whether this barbed truth pierced him; it pierced herself as she hurled it.
“Maybe,” said he; “but age has not kept me from the business I have come upon. I have come to put a very particular matter before you.”
She was still unsuspicious, but she grew impatient. He had wearied her often in Edinburgh with tedious histories of himself, and she had endured them then for reasons of policy; but she felt no need of doing so here. It was borne in upon her, as it has been borne in upon many of us, that a person who is acceptable in town may be unendurable in the country. She had not thought of that as she welcomed him.
“Ma’am,” he went on, intent on nothing but his affair, “I may surprise you—I trust I shall not offend you. At least you will approve the feelings of devotion, of respect, of admiration which have brought me here. I have an ancient name, I have sufficient means—I am not ill-looking, I believe——”
“Are you making me a proposal, my lord?”
She spoke with an accent of derision; the sting of it was sharp in her tone.
“There is no place for ridicule, ma’am. I see nothing unsuitable in my great regard for you.”
He spoke with real dignity.
She had not suspected him of having any, personally, and she had forgotten that an inherited stock of it was behind him. The rebuke astonished her so much that she scarcely knew what reply to make.
“As I said, I believe I am not ill-looking,” he repeated, with an air that lost him his advantage. “I can offer you such a position as you have a right to expect.”