“Then you must marry me.  If you were in love with me, I should run away.  My sainted Henrietta adored me, and I proved unworthy of adoration—­though I was immensely flattered.”

“Yes; exactly!  The way you treated your first wife ought to be sufficient to warn any woman against becoming your second.”

“Any woman who loved me, you mean.  But you do not love me, and if I run away you will have the advantage of being rid of me.  Our settlements can be drawn so as to secure you half my fortune in such an event.”

“You will never have a chance of running away from me.”

“I shall not want to.  I am not so squeamish as I was.  No; I do not think I shall run away from you.”

“I do not think so either.”

“Well, when shall we be married?”

“Never,” said Agatha, and fled.  But before she had gone a step he caught her.

“Don’t,” she said breathlessly.  “Take your arm away.  How dare you?”

He released her and shut the door of the conservatory.  “Now,” he said, “if you want to run away you will have to run in the open.”

“You are very impertinent.  Let me go in immediately.”

“Do you want me to beg you to marry me after you have offered to do it freely?”

“But I was only joking; I don’t care for you,” she said, looking round for an outlet.

“Agatha,” he said, with grim patience, “half an hour ago I had no more intention of marrying you than of making a voyage to the moon.  But when you made the suggestion I felt all its force in an instant, and now nothing will satisfy me but your keeping your word.  Of all the women I know, you are the only one not quite a fool.”

“I should be a great fool if—­”

“If you married me, you were going to say; but I don’t think so.  I am the only man, not quite an ass, of your acquaintance.  I know my value, and yours.  And I loved you long ago, when I had no right to.”

Agatha frowned.  “No,” she said.  “There is no use in saying anything more about it.  It is out of the question.”

“Come, don’t be vindictive.  I was more sincere then than you were.  But that has nothing to do with the present.  You have spent our renewed acquaintance on the defensive against me, retorting upon me, teasing and tempting me.  Be generous for once, and say Yes with a good will.”

“Oh, I never tempted you,” cried Agatha.  “I did not.  It is not true.”  He said nothing, but offered his hand.  “No; go away; I will not.”  He persisted, and she felt her power of resistance suddenly wane.  Terror-stricken, she said hastily, “There is not the least use in bothering me; I will tell you nothing to-day.”

“Promise me on your honor that you will say Yes to-morrow, and I will leave you in peace until then.”

“I will not.”

“The deuce take your sex,” he said plaintively.

“You know my mind now, and I have to stand here coquetting because you don’t know your own.  If I cared for my comfort I should remain a bachelor.”