To flirt with him was one thing.

The cloud of grief and illness, which had fallen so heavily on her youth, was just lifting under the natural influences of time at the moment when she and Falloden first came across each other.
It was a moment for her of strong reaction, of a welling-up and welling-back of life, after a kind of suspension.

The strong young, fellow, with his good looks, his masterful ways, and his ability--in spite of the barely disguised audacity which seemed inseparable from the homage it pleased him to pay to women--had made a deep and thrilling impression upon her youth and sex.
And yet she had never hesitated when he had asked her to marry him.

Ride with him--laugh with him--quarrel with him, yes!--marry him, no! Something very deep in her recoiled.

She refused him, and then had lain awake most of the night thinking of her mother and feeling ecstatically sure, while the tears came raining, that the dear ghost approved that part of the business at least, if no other.
And how could there be any compunction about it?
Douglas Falloden, with his egotism, his pride in himself, his family, his wits, his boundless confidence in his own brilliant future, was surely fair game.