She tried to answer, but she could not, and in another minute, to tell the honest truth, she had exchanged the gate-post for Harold’s broad shoulder, and was finishing her “cry” there. Now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (more especially if she happens to be weeping on your shoulder) is a very trying thing. It is trying even if you do not happen to be in love with her at all. But if you are in love with her, however little, it is dreadful; whereas, if, as in the present case, you happen to worship her, more, perhaps, than it is good to worship any fallible human creature, then the sight is positively overpowering. And so, indeed, it proved in the present instance. The Colonel could not bear it, but lifting her head from his shoulder, he kissed her sweet face again and again. “What is it, darling?” he said, “what is the matter?” “Leave go of me and I will tell you,” she answered. He obeyed, though with some unwillingness. She hunted for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and then at last she spoke: “I am engaged to be married,” she said in a low voice, “I am engaged to Mr. Cossey.” Then, for about the first time in his life, Harold Quaritch swore violently in the presence of a lady. “Oh, damn it all!” he said. She took no notice of the strength of the language, perhaps indeed she re-echoed it in some feminine equivalent. “It is true,” she said with a sigh. “I knew that it would come, those dreadful things always do—and it was not my fault—I am sure you will always remember that. I had to do it—he advanced the money on the express condition, and even if I could pay back the money, I suppose that I should be bound to carry out the bargain. It is not the money which he wants but his bond.” “Curse him for a Shylock,” said Harold again, and groaned in his bitterness and jealousy. “Is there nothing to be done?” he asked presently in a harsh voice, for he was very hard hit. “Nothing,” she answered sadly. “I do not see what can help us, unless the man died,” she said; “and that is not likely. Harold,” she went on, addressing him for the first time in her life by his Christian name, for she felt that after crying upon a man’s shoulder it is ridiculous to scruple about calling him by his name; “Harold, there is no help for it. I did it myself, remember, because, as I told you, I do not think that any one woman has a right to place her individual happiness before the welfare of her family. And I am only sorry,” she added, her voice breaking a little, “that what I have done should bring suffering upon you.” He groaned again, but said nothing. “We must try to forget,” she went on wildly. “Oh no! no! I feel it is not possible that we should forget. You won’t forget me, Harold, will you? And though it must be all over between us, and we must never speak like this again—never—you will always know I have not forgotten you, will you not, but that I think of you always?”