money,' said the
little man, shrinking, terror-stricken, from a suddenly protruding
glimpse of the future with which Milord had previously poisoned his
mind.

'Yes, indeed it is, and in these times,' urged Mrs. Barton.

The weak grey eyes were cast down, abashed by the daring determination
of the brown.

'Of course Olive is a beautiful girl,' he said.

'And she is so fond of you, and so full of affection. . . .'

The situation was now tense with fear, anxiety, apprehension; and with
resolute fingers Mrs. Barton tightened the chord until the required note
vibrated within the moral consciousness. The poor Marquis felt his
strength ebbing away; he was powerless as one lying in the hot chamber
of a Turkish bath. Would no one come to help him? The implacable melody
of _Dream Faces_, which Olive hammered out on the piano, agonized him.
If she would stop for one moment he would find the words to tell her
mother that he loved Violet Scully and would marry none other. But bang,
bang, bang the left hand pounded the bass into his stunned ears, and the
eyes that he feared were fixed upon him. He gasped for words, he felt
like a drunkard who clutches the air as he reels over a precipice, and
the shades of his ancestors seemed to crowd menacingly around him. He
strove against his fears until a thin face with luminous eyes shone
through the drifting wrack like a stars.

'But we have seen so little of each other,' he said at last; 'Miss
Barton is a great beauty, I know, and nobody appreciates her beauty more
than I, but I am not what you call in love with her.'

He deplored the feebleness of his words, and Mrs. Barton swooped upon
him again.

'You do not love her because, as you say, you have seen very little of
each other. We are going down to Brookfield to-morrow. We shall be very
glad if you will come with us, and in the country you will have an
opportunity of judging, of knowing her: and she is such an affectionate
little thing.'

Affrighted, the Marquis sought again for words, and he glanced at his
torturer timidly, like the hare on the ever-nearing hounds. Why did she
pursue him, he asked, in this terrible way? Had she gone mad? What was
he to say? He had not the courage to answer no to her face. Besides, if
Violet would not have him, he might as well save the family estates. If
Violet refused him! Then he didn't care what became of him! He sought,
and he struggled for words, for words that would save him; and, in this