She lived for the memory of her husband and for the prospects of her child.

Naturally, Mr.Wrybolt turned at first an incredulous ear; he urged his suit, simply and directly, with persuasion derived partly from the realm of sentiment, partly from Lombard Street--the latter sounding the more specious.

But Mrs.Woolstan betrayed no sign of wavering; in truth, the more Wrybolt pleaded, the firmer she grew in her resolve of refusal.

When decency compelled the man to withdraw, he was very warm of countenance and lobster-hued at the back of his neck; an impartial observer would have thought him secretly in a towering rage.

His leave-taking was laconic, though he did his best to smile.
Of course Mrs.Woolstan soon sat down to write him a letter, in which she begged him to believe how grateful she was, how much honoured by his proposal and how deeply distressed at not being able to accept it.
Surely this would make no difference between them?
Of course they would be friends as ever--nay, more than ever?
She could never forget his nobly generous impulse.