d presumption.

Frank had been gone about half-an-hour, and Madame di Negra was scarcely
recovered from the agitation into which she had been thrown by the
affront from the father and the pleading of the son.

Egerton took her passive hand cordially, and seated himself by her side.

"My dear marchesa," I said he, "are we then likely to be near
connections? And can you seriously contemplate marriage with my young
nephew, Frank Hazeldean? You turn away. Ah, my fair friend, there are
but two inducements to a free woman to sign away her liberty at the
altar. I say a free woman, for widows are free, and girls are not. These
inducements are, first, worldly position; secondly, love. Which of these
motives can urge Madame di Negra to marry Mr. Frank Hazeldeani?"

"There are other motives than those you speak of,--the need of
protection, the sense of solitude, the curse of dependence, gratitude
for honourable affection. But you men never know women!"

"I grant that you are right there,--we never do; neither do women ever
know men. And yet each sex contrives to dupe and to fool the other!
Listen to me. I have little acquaintance with my nephew, but I allow he
is a handsome young gentleman, with whom a handsome young lady in her
teens might fall in love in a ball-room. But you, who have known the
higher order of our species, you who have received the homage of men,
whose thoughts and mind leave the small talk of drawing-room triflers
so poor and bald, you cannot look me in the face and say that it is
any passion resembling love which you feel for my nephew. And as to
position, it is right that I should inform you that if he marry you
he will have none. He may risk his inheritance. You will receive no
countenance from his parents. You will be poor, but not free. You
will not gain the independence you seek for. The sight of a vacant,
discontented face in that opposite chair will be worse than solitude.
And as to grateful affection," added the man of the world, "it is a
polite synonym for tranquil indifference."

"Mr. Egerton," said Beatrice, "people say you are made of bronze. Did
you ever feel the want of a home?"

"I answer you frankly," replied the statesman, "if I had not felt it,
do you think I should have been, and that I should be to the last, the
joyless drudge of public life? Bronze though you call my nature, it
would have melted away long since like wax in the fire, if I had sat
idly down and dreamed of a home!"