I have not been a dutiful son, and I have made my mother unhappy.

If you were my wife I think I should become good, for you, Beatrice, you are very good." He was telling her the old, old story, and she was half believing him, half believing that it might be in her power to redeem him.

Beatrice Meadowsweet was just the sort of woman to love such work, to glory in such martyrdom.
She did not withdraw her hand from his, and her gray eyes, already dark and misty with emotion, filled with tears.
"I have never been spoken to like this before," she said.
Here she rose and stood before him.
"Your words trouble me.

It is not right for a girl to marry without love, and yet most surely I pity you." "Carry your pity a little further, and believe that the love will come.
You cannot receive all and give nothing in return--the love will come, Beatrice, believe me, do believe me." "I am not of your rank," she said, going back to her old objection, which in itself was a sign of weakness.
"See what my mother says of your rank and of you.

You can take any rank.
Oh, Beatrice, how happy you will make my mother." She was not moved at all by this.
"And Catherine, I can see her eyes sparkle." At Catherine's name Beatrice clasped her hands before her, and began to pace slowly up and down the little enclosure which contained the wide French windows opening into the garden.
"And you will make me good, Beatrice." Captain Bertram was astute enough to see that he played his best card here.
Half an hour later he left her.