"Surely," he continued, "I am not presumptuous in considering it implied."
Mildred was silent. Hers was no case for argument.
"Not presumptuous," Melcomb went on, speaking more rapidly, "in aspiring to the happiness which that permission seemed to promise. Not presumptuous in imploring dear Miss Pendarrel to appoint the time, when anxiety and fidelity may be rewarded with joy, and I may become the most fortunate of men."
"Mr. Melcomb," Mildred said, rising from her chair, and trembling, "I am above pretending to misunderstand you. Have you my mother's ... Does she...."
"It is by Mrs. Pendarrel's leave that I venture," said the coxcomb in his softest manner. "And an early day, dearest Mildred,——"
He made a step as if to take her hand, but she recoiled, and said, in a tone of determination, which Melcomb probably never forgot, "The day will never come."
She turned towards the door, but stopped as though she wished to say something more. Melcomb had anticipated a refusal, but not one so decisive.
"Miss Pendarrel will pardon my expressing surprise...." he began to say. Mildred hastily interrupted him, with faltering words.
"Sir, sir, perhaps it is I should ask your pardon—but you have never—it is the first time—I have had no opportunity—in pity to me, sir, urge these addresses no farther."
She could no longer restrain her tears, and quitted the room, Melcomb making no attempt to detain her.