To see you my wife is the dream of Arthur's life, his sole ambition.
And just now, you know, you said you were quite prepared to do
anything for him. You can't, with any sense of honor, back out of your
given word."

"I never heard anything so absurd, so foolish, so nonsensical!" says
Miss Peyton, resentfully.

"Nonsensical! My dear Clarissa! pray consider my----"

"It is more! it is right down stupid of him," says Clarissa, who
plainly declines to consider any one's feelings.

"You needn't pile up my agony any higher," interposes Branscombe,
meekly. "To my everlasting regret I acknowledge myself utterly
unworthy of you. But why tell me so in such round terms? I assure you
I feel excessively hurt and offended. Am I to understand, then, that
you have refused me?"

"You shall understand something worse, if you say another word," says
Clarissa, holding, up before him a little clinched hand in a would-be
threatening manner. And then they both laugh in a subdued fashion; and
she moves on towards the open hall-door, he following.

"Well, I forgive you," he says, as she steps into her low phaeton, and
he arranges the rug carefully around her. "Though you don't deserve
it. (What ridiculous little hands to guide such refractory ponies!)
Sure you are quite comfortable? Well, good-by; and look
here,"--teasingly,--"I should think it over if I were you. You may not
get so excellent a chance again; and Arthur will never forgive you."

"Your uncle, though charming, and a very dear, is also a goose," says
Miss Peyton, somewhat irreverently. "Marry you, indeed! Why, I should
quite as soon dream of marrying my brother!"

"Well, as I can't be your husband, it would be rather nice to be your
brother," says Mr. Branscombe, cheerfully. "Your words give me hope
that you regard me in that light. I shall always think of you for the
future as my sister, and so I am sure"--with an eloquent and rather
mischievous pause--"will Horace!"

Miss Peyton blushes again,--much more vividly this time,--and,
gathering up the reins hastily, says "good-by" for the second time,
without turning her flushed face to his, and drives rapidly up the
avenue.

Branscombe stands on the steps watching her until she is quite lost to
sight behind the rhododendrons, and then strokes his moustache
thoughtfully.

"That has quite arranged itself, I should fancy," he says, slowly.
"Well, I hope he will be very good to her, dear little thing!"

CHAPTER II.