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“But this, I think, evades our bargain, Mr. Sheridan. For you were committed to pilfer property to the value of L10,000—-“

“And to fulfil the obligation I have stolen your hand in marriage. What, madam! do you indeed pretend that any person outside of Bedlam would value you at less? Believe me, your perfections are of far more worth. All persons recognize that save yourself, incomparable Esther Jane; and yet, so patent is the proof of my contention, I dare to leave the verdict to your sense of justice.”

Miss Ogle did not speak. Her lashes fell as, with some ceremony, he led her to the long French mirror which was in the breakfast room. “See now!” said Mr. Sheridan. “You, who endanger life and fame in order to provide a mendicant with gruel, tracts and blankets! You, who deny a sop to the one hunger which is vital! Oh, madam, I am tempted glibly to compare your eyes to sapphires, and your hair to thin-spun gold, and the color of your flesh to the arbutus-flower–for that, as you can see, would be within the truth, and it would please most women, and afterward they would not be so obdurate. But you are not like other women,” Mr. Sheridan observed, with admirable dexterity. “And I aspire to you, the irresistible Ogle! you, who so great-heartedly befriend the beggar! you, who with such industry contrive alleviation for the discomforts of poverty. Eh, eh! what will you grant to any beggar such as I? Will you deny a sop to the one hunger which is vital?” He spoke with unaccustomed vigor, even in a sort of terror, because he knew that he was speaking with sincerity.

“To the one hunger which is vital!” he repeated. “Ah, where lies the secret which makes one face the dearest in the world, and entrusts to one little hand a life’s happiness as a plaything? All Aristotle’s learning could not unriddle the mystery, and Samson’s thews were impotent to break that spell. Love vanquishes all. . . . You would remind me of some previous skirmishings with Venus’s unconquerable brat? Nay, madam, to the contrary, the fact that I have loved many other women is my strongest plea for toleration. Were there nothing else, it is indisputable we perform all actions better for having rehearsed them. No, we do not of necessity perform them the more thoughtlessly as well; for, indeed, I find that with experience a man becomes increasingly difficult to please in affairs of the heart. The woman one loves then is granted that pre-eminence not merely by virtue of having outshone any particular one of her predecessors; oh, no! instead, her qualities have been compared with all the charms of all her fair forerunners, and they have endured that stringent testing. The winning of an often-bartered heart is in reality the only conquest which entitles a woman to complacency, for she has received a real compliment; whereas to be selected as the target of a lad’s first declaration is a tribute of no more value than a man’s opinion upon vintages who has never tasted wine.”

He took a turn about the breakfast room, then came near to her. “I love you. Were there any way to parade the circumstance and bedeck it with pleasing adornments of filed phrases, tropes and far-fetched similes, I would not grudge you a deal of verbal pageantry. But three words say all. I love you. There is no act in my past life but appears trivial and strange to me, and to the man who performed it I seem no more akin than to Mark Antony or Nebuchadnezzar. I love you. The skies are bluer since you came, the beauty of this world we live in oppresses me with a fearful joy, and in my heart there is always the thought of you and such yearning as I may not word. For I love you.”