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Everyone looks to you for the final decision, but before you can ask the reeve to discuss this privately (since you'd rather not commit to anything in front of Lord Royce), the sound of a bell, the sort the crier uses to announce news or a fire, rings out through the household. The reeve jumps to his feet and, with Amelia in tow, rushes out of the room. You can hear distant coughing and moans of pain--the reeve's dying father--and then low voices trying to soothe them.
Lord Royce remains behind, eyeing you suspiciously all the while, as though you were the cause of this interruption. You are about to excuse yourself and go home, when he suddenly airs what must have been on his mind this whole time: the nature of your relationship with Amelia. You tell him what he must already know, that you and Amelia were childhood friends but have grown apart for obvious reasons. He innocently asks what those reasons might be, knowing the answer, but wanting you to admit it out loud. When you say nothing, he answers for you: the difference in your fortunes and birth. He goes on to say that he knows how advantageous the marriage would be for Amelia and her father, and that his concession is more akin to an act of charity, one he is willing to make if it would mean obtaining an obedient wife. And it is in this, he would know your opinion: is Amelia the kind of girl who would yield for the sake of her father? Does she harbor any "secret ambitions" (here he gives you a wry, scornful smile)? Does she possess "forbearance" (when you ask what he means by this, he merely tilts his head forward, smiles, and raises his brows).
Amelia returns before you can answer, giving you a small token from her father's desk for the money, and asking you to return later. She does not say anything at all to Lord Royce, which he seems to find annoying, but he follows you out as well. He presses you for an answer regarding Amelia, and further, tacks on the question of your feelings toward her. Her affections for you were obvious to him, but he is "willing to dismiss them as the remnants of youthful feeling", so long as they are not reciprocated. One he regards as a kind of generosity, not very different from his own, but the other is ambition, which he regards as dangerous.
You tell him:
>Nothing. He is free to make whatever conclusions he wishes; you owe him no explanations.
>Amelia's ambitions go no further than playing the dutiful daughter, and you expect, the dutiful wife. You have no cause nor desire to interfere with that
>There isn't anyone in the village who does not entertain such "ambitions" for her, but few who would dare to act on them. But a damsel in distress can often make lambs into lions.
>Write-in
