Not observing this, however, Mr. Decourcy came toward her, with some words of ardent greeting, and when she extended her hand he made a motion to raise it to his lips. With a movement that was almost rough in its suddenness, Margaret snatched her hand away. “Margaret! What can this mean?” said Decourcy, in a tone of surprised reproach. Miss Trevennon gave a little, constrained laugh. “I don’t like that sort of thing,” she said, lightly. “Don’t do it again. It’s unpleasant to me.” “Forgive me,” he answered, with the utmost gentleness, untinged by any shade of pique. “I beg your pardon. I am very sorry.” “Oh, never mind! It doesn’t matter,” said Margaret, hurriedly. “Thank you so much for the locket, Alan. It is lovely--far lovelier than I have any idea of, I dare say, for I am so ignorant about such things.” “I hoped it would please you,” he said. “You saw the picture I ventured to put in it? And will you consent to wear it?” “I don’t know about that,” she said, somewhat uneasily. “It was very kind of you to put it in, but I never have worn any one’s picture. I know you’re a cousin, and all that, but I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll take the picture out and put it----” But he interrupted her. “It isn’t because I am your cousin, Margaret, that I want you to wear my picture,” he said. “On the contrary, I hope for the time when you will forget that relationship in a nearer and tenderer one----” “Alan! Stop. You must not go on,” said Margaret, with sudden vehemence. “There can be no thought of a nearer relationship between us at any time. If we are to be friends at all, this subject must not be mentioned again.” “Forgive me; I have startled you,” he said. “I meant not to do that. I do not want to constrain you or to force this hope of mine upon you too suddenly, but I cannot lightly give it up. It has been with me, during all my wanderings to and fro--if not the definite hope, at least an appreciation of the fact that my sweet cousin was endowed, more than any woman whom I had known, with all the attributes and qualities a man could desire in his companion for life. I cannot, even yet, quite abandon the hope that I may yet induce you to accept my devotion.” Margaret might have borne the rest, but this word galled her. “Devotion!” she said mockingly, with a little scornful laugh. “Oh, Alan!” “What do you mean? Why should you speak to me in that tone? It is unfair, Margaret. It is not like you.”