"Come, come, sir! I am a mundane woman, and I know it. I am not interested in a lark. No," she went on. "I thank you, not only for your offer, but for the kindness which must have inspired you to make it. To be sure, my late husband's lands go to his children. But you should know that poor Simon…" She seemed to choke, but continued, "When we were wed, Simon made over to me the jewels he gave me, his house and its furnishings, and his practice is mine to dispose of as I see fit. I shall not be thrown upon the town for my living. I have no children of my own for whom I am responsible. I shall be reasonably prosperous, in fact."
"I do not make my proposal out of pity, Eleanor," Hoare protested. "I make it out of admiration, high regard, and the deepest affection. I… I love you."
"I wonder, Bartholomew," she said gently, "if you recall the evening you spent with Simon, Miss Austen, Mr. Morrow-Moreau, I suppose I should call him-and myself…"
"Vividly."
"Then you will remember my saying something like this: 'I permit no one but my husband to listen to the music of my heart. It belongs to him.' I meant those words then, Bartholomew, and I mean them still. Perhaps it is too soon after Simon's death, but my heart is not yet mine to bestow."
"Then I shall not withdraw my proposal," Hoare whispered. "Your heart may not now be yours to bestow on a living man, but perhaps it will find its way back to you in due course. Meanwhile, you have the disposition of my own."
Hoare could say no more. He bowed over Eleanor Graves's hand, turned, and left her house. Once again, it was raining.