confide in you. I can only
say one thing."

Beatrice began to wish that her mother had not left the drawing-room.
She moved forward as if to step through the open French window.

"And I must tell you this thing," pursued the captain's voice.

Its tone arrested her.

"But I am mad to say it."

"Don't say it then," she began.

"I can't help myself. You must listen. I love you better than all the
world. I won't marry any one but you. I will marry you, I am
determined."

"You are determined," repeated Beatrice, slowly. "_You_--determined--and
about me? I am obliged."

Her lips took a scornful curl. She sat down. She was quiet enough now;
the worst was over.

Beatrice, however, was only a country girl, and she had very little idea
with whom she had to deal. No one could plead better his cause than
Loftus Bertram. Defeat here meant the ruin of his worldly prospects as
well as of his love. He was the kind of man with whom the present must
always be paramount; for the time being he had absolutely forgotten
Josephine Hart, for the time being he thought himself honestly, deeply
in love with Beatrice.

So he talked and talked, until poor Beatrice felt both her head and
heart aching.

"I am not in your rank of life," she said at last, as her final thrust.
"My set is not the same as yours; my people can never belong to
yours--my dear old mother is a lady at heart, but she has not the
outward polish of your mother. You want me to be your wife now, but
by-and-bye you will remember the gulf which socially lies between us."

"How can you talk such nonsense? You are one of nature's ladies. Ask my
mother what she thinks of you. Ask Catherine. Don't you think Catherine
would be happy to put her arms round you and call you sister?"

When Bertram mentioned Catherine a sweet light came for the first time
into Beatrice's eyes.

"I love your sister Catherine," she said.

"You will love me too. You will make me the happiest of men."

"I have not even begun to love you. I have not a shadow of affection for
you."

"If you saw me very unhappy you would pity me."

"Yes, I pity all unhappy people."

"Then pity me, for I am miserable."

"Pity won't do you any good; and you have no right to be miserable."

"Still, pity me; for I am, I can't help it--I am wretched beyond words."

His face had grown really haggard, for he was beginning to think she
would never yield, and this look won her to say:

"Well, yes, if it comfort