“I wanted, Mr. lindley—” he began respectfully, then all the colour suddenly left his face. It seemed now a violation to say what he had to say. What was he doing there·But he stood on, because it had to be done. He held firmly to his own independence and self-respect. He must not be indecisive. He must put himself aside:the matter was bigger than just his personal self. He must not feel. This was his highest duty.

“You wanted—” said the vicar.

Durant’s mouth was dry, but he answered with steadiness:“Miss Louisa—Louisa—promised to marry me—”

“You asked Miss Louisa if she would marry you—yes—” corrected the vicar. Durant reflected he had not asked her this:

“If she would marry me, sir. I hope you—don’t mind.”

He smiled. He was a good-looking man, and the vicar could not help seeing it.

“And my daughter was willing to marry you·” said Mr. Lindley.

“Yes,” said Durant seriously. It was pain to him, nevertheless. He felt the natural hostility between himself and the elder man.

“Will you come this way·” said the vicar. He led into the dining-room, where were Mary, Louisa, and Mrs. Lindley. Mr. Massy sat in a corner with a lamp.

“This young man has come on your account, Louisa·” said Mr. Lindley.

“Yes,” said Louisa, her eyes on Durant, who stood erect, in discipline. He dared not look at her, but he was aware of her.

“You don’t want to marry a collier, you little fool,” cried Mrs. Lindley harshly. She lay obese and helpless upon the couch, swathed in a loose dove-grey gown.

“Oh, hush, Mother,” cried Mary, with quiet intensity and pride.

“What means have you to support a wife·” demanded the vicar’s wife roughly.

“I!” Durant replied, starting. “I think I can earn enough.”

“Well, and how much·” came the rough voice.

“Seven and six a day,” replied the young man.

“And will it get to be any more·”

“I hope so.”

“And are you going to live in that poky little house·”

“I think so,”said Durant, “if it’s all right.”

He took small offence, only was upset, because they would not think him good enough. He knew that, in their sense, he was not.

“Then she’s a fool, I tell you, if she marries you,” cried the mother roughly, casting her decision.

“After all, mama, it is Louisa’s affair,” said Mary distinctly, “and we must remember—”

“As she makes her bed, she must lie—but she’ll repent it,” interrupted Mrs. Lindley.

“And after all,” said Mr. Lindley, “Louisa cannot quite hold herself free to act entirely without consideration for her family.”

“What do you want, papa·” asked Louisa sharply.

“I mean that if you marry this man, it will make my position very difficult for me, particularly if you stay in this parish. If you were moving quite away, it would be simpler. But living here in a collier’s cottage, under my nose, as it were—it would be almost unseemly. I have my position to maintain, and a position which may not be taken lightly.”