he, sitting more upright, as though
desirous of argument; but he interrupts her.

"There you mistake me," he says. "My motives are quite pure. I am
dying to understand you, only I can't. If you would try to be a little
more lucid, all would be well; but why I am to be sat upon, and
generally maltreated, because I walked a mile or so with a friend of
yours, is more than I can grasp."

"I don't want to sit upon you," says Clarissa a little vexed.

"No! I dare say that chair is more comfortable."

"I don't want anything; I merely ask you to be careful. She is very
young, and has seen few men; and if you persist in your attentions she
may fall in love with you."

"I wish to goodness she would," says Branscombe; and then something in
his own mind strikes him, and he leans back in his chair, and laughs
aloud. There is, perhaps, more bitterness than mirth in his laugh; yet
Miss Peyton hears only the mirth.

"I hope she won't," she says, severely. "Nothing would cause me
greater sorrow. Underneath her childish manner there lies a passionate
amount of feeling that, once called into play, would be impossible to
check. Amuse yourself elsewhere, Dorian, unless you mean to marry
her."

"Well, why shouldn't I marry her?" says Dorian.

"I see no reason why you shouldn't. I only know you have no intention
whatever of doing so."

"If you keep on saying that over and over again, I dare say I _shall_
want to marry her," says Dorian. "There is nothing like opposition for
that kind of thing; you go and tell a fellow he can't and sha'n't
marry such-and-such a girl, and ten to one but he goes and does it
directly."

"Don't speak like that," says Clarissa, entreatingly: she is plainly
unhappy.

"Like what? What nonsense you have been talking all this time! Has it
never occurred to you that though, no doubt, I am endowed with many
qualities above the average, still I am not an 'Adonis,' or an
'Apollo,' or an 'Admirable Crichton,' or any thing of that sort, and
that it is probable your Miss Broughton might be in my society from
this till the day she dies without experiencing a pang, as far as I am
concerned."

"I don't know about 'Apollo' or 'Crichton,'" says Clarissa; "but let
her alone. I want her to marry Mr. Hastings."

"The curate?" says Dorian, for the second time to day.

"Yes. Why should you be so amazed? He is very charming, and I think
she likes him. He is very kind-hearted, and would make her happy; and
she doesn't