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Rh words which run easily from your tongue, feeling sure that I shall be proud in heart when I hear them whispered into my ears; and now you pretend to be angry because I do not show you that I am elated. Do you think it probable that I should treat with scorn anything of this sort that you might say to me seriously?'

'I think you are doing so.'

'Have you generally found yourself treated with scorn when you have been out on this pursuit?'

'By heavens! you have no right to speak to me so. In what way shall I put my words to make them sound seriously to you? Do you want me to kneel at your feet, as our grandfathers used to do?'

'Oh, certainly not. Our grandmothers were very stupid in desiring that.'

'If I put my hand on my heart will you believe me better?'

'Not in the least.'

'Then through what formula shall I go?'

'Go through no formula, Mr. Staveley. In such affairs as these very little, as I take it, depends on the words that are uttered. When heart has spoken to heart, or even head to head, very little other speaking is absolutely necessary.'

'And my heart has not spoken to yours?'

'Well;—no;—not with that downright plain open language which a heart in earnest always knows how to use. I suppose you think you like me?'

'Sophia, I love you well enough to make you my wife to-morrow.'

'Yes; and to be tired of your bargain the next day. Has it ever occurred to you that giving and taking in marriage is a very serious thing?'

'A very serious thing; but I do not think that on that account it should be avoided.'

'No; but it seems to me that you are always inclined to play at marriage. Do not be angry with me, but for the life of me I can never think you are in earnest.'

'But I shall be angry—very angry—if I do not get from you some answer to what I have ventured to say.'

'What, now; to-day;—this morning? If you insist upon that, the answer can only be of one sort. If I am driven to decide this morning on the question that you have asked me, great as the honour is—and coming from you, Mr. Staveley, it is very great—I must decline it. I am not able, at any rate at the present moment, to trust my happiness altogether in your hands.' When we think of the half-written letter which at this moment Miss Furnival had within her desk, this was not wonderful.

And then, without having said anything more that was of note, Augustus Staveley went his way. As he walked up Harley Street,