To put it brutally, she could raise her terms, and he as a gentleman could not beat her down.  With ninety-nine women out of a hundred those higher terms could be summed up in one word—­marriage.  Well and again, why not?  He was rich and his own master.  In all but her poor origin and the scandal of an undeserved punishment she was worthy—­more than worthy; and for the Colonials, among whom alone that scandal would count against her, he had a habit of contempt.  He could, and would in his humour, force Boston to court her salons and hold its tongue from all but secret tattle.  The thought, too, of Lady Caroline at this moment crossing the high seas to be met with the news agreeably moved him to mirth.

But somehow, face to face here, he divined that Ruth was not as ninety-nine women in the hundred; that her terms were different.  They might he less, but also they were more.  They might be less.  Had she not crossed her arms and told him she was his slave?  But in that very humility he read that they were more.  There was no last easy fence.  There was no fence at all.  But a veil there was; a veil he lacked the insight to penetrate, the brutality to tear aside.

Partly to assure himself, partly to tempt her from this mysterious ring of defence, he went on, “I ought to apologise, too, for having sent Silk yesterday with my message.  You received it?”

She bent her head.

“My aunt and cousin invite themselves to Boston, and give me no chance to say anything but ‘Welcome.’  Two pistols held to my head.”  He laughed.  “There’s a certain downrightness in Lady Caroline.  And what do you suppose she wants?”

“Mr. Silk says she wants you to marry your cousin.”

“Told you that, did he?” His eyes were on her face, but it had not changed colour; her clear gaze yet baffled him.  “Well, and what do you say?”

“Must I say anything?”

“Well”—­he gave a short, impatient laugh—­“we can hardly pretend—­can we?—­that it doesn’t concern you.”

“I do not pretend it,” she answered.  “I am yours, to deal with as you will; to dismiss when you choose.  I can never owe you anything but gratitude.”

“Ruth, will you marry me?”

He said it with the accent of passion, stepping half a pace forward, holding out his hands.  She winced and drew back a little; she, too, holding out her hands, but with the palms turned downward.  Upon that movement his passion hung fire. (Was it actual passion, or rather a surrender to the inevitable—­to a feeling that it had all happened fatally, beyond escape, that now—­beautiful, wonderful as she had grown—­he could never do without her?  At any rate their hands, outstretched thus, did not meet.)

“You talked lightly just now,” she said, and with the smallest catch in her voice, “of vows made in haste.  You forget your vow that after three years I should go back—­go back whence you took me—­and choose.”