Tilly turned and went like a half-drowned kitten out of the room. She was met, however, in the passage by Margot. Margot's beautiful black eyes were brimful of tears. "Oh, Tilly, Tilly," she exclaimed, "did you really want to kill me?" "I--I--I think I did," said Tilly. "I hated you, Margot, and I--I hate you now." "Anyhow I'm going to help you to pack, poor Tilly. It's an awful thing to hate, and why should you hate one who never hated you?" "Don't you hate me after this?" said Tilly in bewilderment. "Oh, no, indeed; no, I love you because you are so miserable." Suddenly Tilly found quite a different order of tears filling her eyes. Margot swept her dear, little round arms about her and took her quickly upstairs and packed for her because she was incapable of packing for herself. Phinias Maloney's funny old cart was summoned and Tilly and her belongings were packed into it, but the last thing she remembered of Desmondstown was the sweet face of little Margot, who kissed her hand to her, and whose eyes were brimful of tears as she watched her drive away. CHAPTER XV. I CANNOT TALK PARLEY-VOUS. If ever there was a girl who was furious in her own mind it was Matilda Raynes. She had enjoyed her life at Desmondstown. Little did she care for the rough and tumble-down old house, the food was good, the young-old aunts were jolly of the jolly. Malachi and Bruce were great fun. Ah no, however, Malachi was _not_ great fun! She used to think he was, but she found out her mistake. For a man to sleep with one eye open like a cat, for a man deliberately to get her into a hole, for a man deliberately to betray her and force her to tell her horrible mean little story--oh, no, she could not like Malachi any more. She also dreaded The Desmond inexpressibly, but perhaps of all the happy Irish folks the one she disliked most was that sweet, loving, forgiving _la petite_ Comtesse. How dared she be loving and forgiving? If she had fought her, Tilly would have known what to do, but she did not. She was only gentle and a little sad, in fact very sad; and they all, every one of them, made such a fuss about her and she was no real Comtesse at all. She was nothing but a little stupid shopgirl. How in the wide, wide world was Tilly ever to bear with her again? Mr. Flannigan sat very still by her side. She wished heartily that she might have travelled alone to Rosslare. She did not wish for Mr. Flannigan, he seemed to have no fun in him and he looked from time to time with a sort of horror at Tilly.