Cecilia’s brows drew together imperceptibly.
‘I do not care for you,’ she said; ‘you force me to speak in this way. I do not love you in the least.’
‘But what is there that you object to in me?’ he cried. ‘Surely you understand that my father, in consenting, is ready to establish me very well. I am the eldest son, Miss Raeburn.’
Cecilia’s pale face was set, and her chin rose a little higher at each word.
‘That is nothing to me,’ she replied; ‘it does not concern me. I do not care what your prospects are. I thank you very much for your—civility, but I refuse.’
He was at a loss for words; he felt like a man dealing with a mad person, one to whom the very rudiments of reason and conduct seemed to convey nothing. But the flagrant absurdity of her attitude gave him hope; there were some things too monstrous for reality.
‘I will give you time to think it over,’ he said at last.
‘That is quite useless. My answer is ready now.’
‘But what can be your objection?’ he broke out. ‘What do you want, what do you expect, that I cannot give you?’
‘I want a husband whom I can love,’ she replied, sharply. ‘I have told you that I do not care for you, sir. Let that be the end.’