Caldigate felt at the moment that he had been very abrupt,— so abrupt as to have caused infinite dismay. But then it had been necessary that he should be abrupt in order that he might get the matter understood. The ordinary approaches were not open to him, and unless he had taken a more than usually rapid advantage of the occasion which he had made for himself, he would have had to leave the house without having been able to give any of its inmates the least idea of his purpose. And then,— as he said to himself,— matrimony is honest. He was in all worldly respects a fit match for the young lady. To his own thinking there was nothing preposterous in the nature of his request, though it might have been made with some precipitate informality. He did not regard himself exactly as the lady regarded him, and therefore, though he saw her surprise, he still hoped that he might be able to convince her that in all that he was doing he was as anxious for the welfare of her child as she could be herself.

She sat there so long without saying a word that he found himself obliged to renew his suit. ‘Of course, Mrs. Bolton, I am aware how very little you know of me.’

‘Nothing at all,’ she answered, hurriedly;—‘or rather too much.’

He blushed up to his eyes, perfectly understanding the meaning of her words; and, knowing that he had not deserved them, he was almost angry. ‘If you will make inquiry I think you will find that I have so far succeeded as to justify you in hoping that I may be able to marry and settle myself in my own country.’

‘You don’t know my daughter at all.’

‘Very little.’

‘It is quite out of the question. She is very young, and such a thing has never occurred to her. And we are not the same sort of people.’

‘Why not, Mrs. Bolton? Your husband and my father have been intimate friends for a great many years. It is not as though I had taken up the idea only yesterday. It has been present with me, comforting me, during all my work, for the last five years. I know all your daughter’s features as though she had been my constant companion.’ The lady shivered and almost trembled at this profanation of her child’s name. It was trouble to her that one so holy should ever have been thought about by one so unholy. ‘Of course I do not ask for anything at present;— but will you not consult your husband as to the propriety of allowing her to make my acquaintance?’

‘I shall tell my husband, of course.’

‘And will repeat to him what I say?’

‘I shall tell him,— as I should any other most wild proposition that might be made to me. But I am quite sure that he will be very angry.’

‘Angry! why should he be angry?’

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