“Now you are too sarcastic; for he is a gentleman, and most kind-hearted too. If you had only seen how grieved he was at the bare idea of your being made unhappy on his account!” “How considerate!--and how very confidential he must have been to you!” “Nay, he hardly said anything plainly; I assure you he did not. Only somehow he gave me the impression that he was afraid of--what I had feared for a long time. For as I always told you, Agatha, Major Harper is a settled bachelor--too old to change. Besides, he has had so many women in love with him.” “Does he count their names, one by one, on his fingers, and hang their locks of hair on his paletot, after the Indian fashion Nathanael Harper told us of?--Poor Nathanael!” And on her excited mood that pale “good” face rose up like a vision of serenity. She ceased to mock so bitterly at Nathanael's brother and her own once-honoured friend. “I don't like your abusing Major Harper in this way,” said Emma, gravely; “we all know his little weaknesses, but he is an excellent man, and my husband likes him. And it is nothing so very wonderful if he has been rather confidential with a steady married woman like me--just the right person, in short. It was for your good too, my dear. I am sure I asked him plainly if he ever could think of marrying you. But he shook his head, and answered, 'No, that was quite impossible.'” “Quite impossible, indeed,” said Agatha, her proud lips quivering. “And should he favour you with any more confidences, you may tell him that Agatha Bowen never knew what it was to be 'in love' with any man. Likewise, that were he the only man on earth, she would not condescend to fall in love with or marry Major Frederick Harper.--Now, Emma, let us go down to lunch.” They would have done so, after Mrs. Thornycroft had kissed and embraced her friend, in sincere delight that Agatha was quite heart-whole, and ready to make what she called “a sensible marriage,” but they were stopped on the stairs by a letter that came by post. “A strange hand,” Miss Bowen observed, carelessly. “Will you go down-stairs, Emma, and I will come when I have read it.” But Agatha did not read it. She threw it on the floor, and turning the bolt of the door, paced her little drawing-room in extreme agitation. “I am glad I did not love him--I thank God I did not love him,” she muttered by fits. “But I might have done so, so good and kind as he was, and I so young, with no one to care for. And no one cares for me--no one--no one!” “Young Northen” darted through her mind, but she laughed to scorn the possibility. What love could there be in an empty-headed fool? “Never any but fools have ever made love to me! Oh, if an honest, noble man did but love me, and I could marry, and get out of this friendless desolation, this contemptible, scheming, match-making set, where I and my feelings are talked of, speculated on, bandied about from house to house. It is horrible--horrible! But I'll not cry! No!”