He was very handsome, very erect, very noble there, standing by the old fireplace. He was not merry to-night, so he was going to ask her to marry him, she knew. And in the black and white of evening things, bronzed face and curling hair, he looked the equal of any old Kyteler on the wall. And he had more than they had, she felt—abounding energy. She was very pretty herself to-night, too, she knew, and stately a little.  
He was hurting, hurting her badly, for he was speaking now of South Africa, where he was going. And he was carefully telling her how wonderful he had heard that country was: the mass of Table Mountain and the rolling hills, the great acres of grapes, the miles of veldt with the white Boer farmhouses, the sun forever shining, hunting such as she had never dreamed of, great, majestic storms.
 
"You 'd like it; you 'd like it ever so much."
 
"Oh, I don't know," she lied. "Ireland is a lot to me."
 
He was telling her clumsily, shamefacedly of another thing—of a lucky chance he had had in Brazil many years ago, a chance he had taken laughingly, and that had made him indecently rich, and he still a very young man. She understood.
 
She moved away, and began hunting for a piece of music, so that her back was to him.
 
"Did you ever think," she said, "of settling down in Ireland? You 're Irish, you know.
 
"And it's not a bad place," she went on before he answered. "It's a sort of sportsman's paradise. Fishing and hunting and race-courses. And sailing. And if you get tired you can run over to London, or Paris, or Madrid.
 
"Oh, damn!" she said, "I can't find that thing at all!" She was trembling from head to heel. "Why don't you marry some nice Irish girl and settle down?"
 
"Oh, I could n't settle down in Ireland."
 
"No?"
 
"There 's my work to do."
 
"But you just said you were rich."
 
"That's no excuse for not working."
 
"I thought—I don't know."
 
"No, I 'd be a very poor sort," he laughed, "if I stopped work because I was rich. I 'd have no self-respect—"
 
"No?" she said dully. The trembling had passed now. She was just numb, numb and dead.
 
"But as to marrying an Irish girl, Lady Margery—Margery—"
 
She stood up and turned about. She was smiling quizzically.
 
"You 're not proposing to marry me, are you?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Don't. Don't, O'Conor," she............