"I can't say. I don't think the Count was. You know he is not a witty man, mother, and it might be a joke. But if it was a joke, he acted the part admirably—he pulled two leaves out of my photographic album, and nibbled a hole in the table-cover with his nail. He sate so, Lady Jane, and said, in a deep bass voice, 'Miss Brunel, I have 30,000*l.* a year; I am old; I am affectionate; and will you marry me?' Anything more romantic you could not imagine: and the sighs he heaved, and the anxiety of his face, would have been admirable, had he been dressed as 'Orlando,' and playing to my 'Rosalind.' 'For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.' 'Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!'"
"Sweetheart, have you grown mad? What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. Must I describe the whole scene to you?—my lover's fearful diffidence, my gentle silence, his growing confidence, my wonder and bewilderment, finally, his half-concealed joy, and my hasty rush to you, Lady Jane, to tell you the news?"
"And a pretty return you are making for any man's confidence and affection, to go on in that way. What did you say to him?"
"Nothing."
"And what do you mean to say?"
"Nothing. What can I say, Lady Jane? I am sure he must have been joking; and, if not, he ought to have been. At the same time, I don't laugh at the Count himself, mother, but at his position a few minutes ago."
"And as you laugh at that, you laugh at the notion of becoming his wife."
The smile died away from the girl's face, and for some time she sate and gazed wistfully before her. Then she said—
"You ought to be able to say what I ought to do, mother. I did not say no, I did not say yes; I was too afraid to say either. And now, if we are to talk seriously about it, I am quite as much afraid. Tell me what to do, Lady Jane."