I suppose!”

“That entirely depends on circumstances,” she said coldly, as if the matter was of no interest to her whatever; “years are no criterion for judgment”—and she then stopped, throwing the burden of the next move on my shoulders.

I did not hesitate any longer, however.

“Will you allow Min to become engaged to me?” I said, valiantly, plunging at once into the thick of the combat.

“Pray, Mr Lorton,” she replied, ignoring my query, “what means have you for supporting a wife? People cannot live upon nothing, you know; and ‘love in a cottage’ is an exploded fallacy.”

She spoke as lightly and pleasantly as if she were conversing upon some ordinary society topic with another lady of the world like herself. She very well knew what she was about, however. She was “developing her main attack”—as military strategists would say!

You see, I had never given the subject of ways and means an instant’s consideration, having remitted the matter to Providence with that implicit trust and cheerful hopefulness to which most enraptured swains are prone. I had only thought of loving Min and being loved by her:—engagement naturally following between us; and, that, was all I had thought of as yet.

When the time came for us to be married, our guardian angels would, no doubt, take care to provide us with the wherewithal!

“Sufficient for the day” was “the evil thereof.” Till then, I was quite satisfied to let the matter rest; living, for the present, in the fairy land of my imagination where such a thing as filthy lucre was undreamt of.

Mrs Clyde’s inquiry, therefore, took me all aback. “What means had I for supporting a wife?” Really, it was a very uncalled-for remark!

I had to answer it, nevertheless. Of course I could only tell the truth.

“I’ve only got two hundred and fifty pounds a-year of my own at present, Mrs Clyde,” I said; “but—”

“Two—hundred—a-year!”—she said, interrupting me ere I could finish my statement, placing a horribly sneering emphasis on each word, which made the sum mentioned appear so paltry and insignificant, that it struck me with shame.—“I beg your pardon—two hundred and fifty! Why, how young you are, Mr Lorton. Do you really think you could support a wife and establishment on that income? I thought you were joking, my dear young friend,”—she added—“you know it would barely pay your tailor’s bill!”

And she looked at me from head to foot with her merciless quizzing eyes, taking in all the elaborateness of the apparel that I had donned for her personal subjugation.

“You have not heard me out, Mrs Clyde,” I answered, spurred upon my mettle.—“I am not quite dependent on that income. I also write for the press!”

I said this quite grandly, on the strength of my contributing an occasional magazine article at stray intervals to one of the current periodicals—getting one accepted for every dozen that were “declined with thanks;” and, being the “musical critic” of a very weakly weekly!

“O–oh, indeed!” she exclaimed.

There was a most aggravating tone of pity mingled with her surprise.

She evidently now looked upon me as more presumptuous than ever, and hopelessly beyond the pale of her social circle!

“And how much,”—she asked, in a patronising way which galled me to the quick,—“do you derive from this source? That is, if you will kindly excuse my saying so? The proposal which you have done my daughter and myself the honour to suggest, necessitates my making such delicate inquiries, you know.”

“I do not earn very much by my pen, as yet, Mrs Clyde,” I answered—“but, I hope to do more in a little time, when my name gets recognised. I’m only a beginner as yet.”

“Well, if you would take my advice, Mr Lorton, you would remain so. I’ve heard it frequently said by some of your penny-a-liners—I believe that is what you literary gentlemen call yourselves—that, authorship reaps very poor pay. It makes a very good stick, but a bad crutch; and I don’t think you can expect to increase your income very largely from that quarter! The only author I ever knew personally, sank into it, poor fellow, because he could do nothing else; and, he led a wretched existence from hand to mouth! He was never recognised afterwards in society, of course!”

“Genius is not always acknowledged at first, Mrs Clyde,” I said loftily.

Her sneers at the profession, which I regarded as one of the highest in the world, provoked me.

Fancy her calling all authors “penny-a-liners!”

“So, all unsuccessful men say!” she replied curtly.—“But,”—she went on, putting aside all my literary prospects as beneath her notice, and returning to the main point at issue,—“is that all you have got to depend upon for your anticipated wife and establishment?”

She smiled sweetly, playing with me as a cat would with a mouse.

“All I have, certainly, at present, Mrs Clyde,”—I said, abashed at the sarcasm thus directed against my miserable income, which she did not take the slightest pains to conceal.—“But I shall have more by-and-by. We are both young; and, if you will only give me some hope of gaining your consent, when I have achieved what you may consider sufficient for the purpose, I will work for her and win her. O Mrs Clyde!”—I pleaded,—“let me only have the assurance that you will allow her to wait for me. I will work most nobly that I may deserve her!”

“All this is mere rhapsody, Mr Lorton,”—she said in her icy accents, throwing a shower of metaphorical cold water on my earnest enthusiasm.—“Do you seriously think for a moment that I would give my consent to my daughter’s engagement to you in your present position?”

“I hoped so, Mrs Clyde,” I replied, timidly.

I did not know what else to say.

“Then you hoped wrongly,” she said. “You are really very young, Mr Lorton! I do not mean merely in years, but in knowledge of the world! You positively wish me to sacrifice all my daughter’s prospects, and let her be bound to a wearisome engagement, on the mere chance of your being able at some distant period to marry her! Do I understand you aright? I certainly gave you credit for possessing more good sense, Mr Lorton, or I should never have admitted you to my house.”

“O, Mrs Clyde,” I said, “be considerate! Be merciful! Remember, that you were young once.”

“I am considerate,” she answered—“still, I must think of my daughter’s welfare, before regarding the foolish wishes of a comparative stranger!”

Throughout the interview, she invariably alluded to Min as “her daughter,” never mentioning her name.

It seemed as if she wished to avoid even the idea of our intimacy, and to make me understand how great a gulf lay between us.

“But I love her so, Mrs Clyde!” I pleaded again, in one last effort. “I love her dearly, and she loves me, I know. Do not, oh! do not part us so cruelly!”

“This is very foolish, Mr Lorton,”—she replied, coldly;—“and there is not much use, I think, in our prolonging the conversation; for, none of your arguments would convince me to give my consent to any such hair-brained scheme. Even if your offer had otherwise my approval, which it has not, I could not bear the idea of a long engagement for my daughter. You yourself ought to be more generous than to wish to tie a girl down to an arrangement which would waste her best years, blight her life; and, probably, end in her being a sour, disappointed woman—as I have known hundreds of such cases to end!”

“I do not wish to bind her,” I said. “I only want your provisional consent, Mrs Clyde. I will diligently try to deserve it; and you will never regret it, you may be assured.”

“I cannot give it, Mr Lorton,”—she replied in a decisive way.—“And if you meet my daughter