men may have less
originality, less force of character than you, but they are better friends to
mankind.«
    »And when is it to be?« said Mr. Yorke, now rising.
    »When is what to be?«
    »The wedding.«
    »Whose wedding?«
    »Only that of Robert Gérard Moore, Esq, of Hollow's Cottage, with Miss
Keeldar, daughter and heiress of the late Charles Cave Keeldar of Fieldhead
Hall.«
    Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour; but the light in her eye
was not faltering: it shone steadily - yes - it burned deeply.
    »That is your revenge,« she said, slowly: then added; »Would it be a bad
match, unworthy of the late Charles Cave Keeldar's representative?«
    »My lass, Moore is a gentleman: his blood is pure and ancient as mine or
thine.«
    »And we two set store by ancient blood? We have family pride, though one of
us at least is a Republican?«
    Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute, but his eye
confessed the impeachment. Yes - he had family pride - you saw it in his whole
bearing.
    »Moore is a gentleman,« echoed Shirley, lifting her head with glad grace.
She checked herself - words seemed crowding to her tongue, she would not give
them utterance; but her look spoke much at the moment: what -- Yorke tried to
read, but could not - the language was there -- visible, but untranslatable - a
poem - a fervid lyric in an unknown tongue. It was not a plain story, however -
no simple gush of feeling - no ordinary love-confession - that was obvious; it
was something other, deeper, more intricate than he guessed at: he felt his
revenge had not struck home; he felt that Shirley triumphed - she held him at
fault, baffled, puzzled; she enjoyed the moment - not he.
    »And if Moore is a gentleman, you can be only a lady, therefore -«
    »Therefore there would be no inequality in our union?«
    »None.«
    »Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me away when I relinquish the
name of Keeldar for that of Moore?«
    Mr. Yorke instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could not
divine what her look signified; whether she spoke in earnest or in jest: there
was purpose and feeling, banter and scoff playing, mingled, on her mobile
lineaments.
    »I don't