He leans towards her: fired by her beauty, that is now enhanced by the regret that lies upon her pretty lips, he determines on pushing his cause at once.

"If _he_ cannot appreciate you, others can--_I_ can.

I----" He pauses; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion as this, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness.

To tell a woman he loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, but now, when at last he is in earnest--when poverty has driven him to seek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills--he finds himself tongue-tied; and not only by the importance of the situation, so far as money goes, but by the clear, calm, waiting eyes of Perpetua.
"Yes ?" says she; and then suddenly, as if not caring for the answer she has demanded.

"You mean that he----You, _too_, think that he dislikes me ?" There is woe in the pale, small, lovely face.
"Very probably.