The veins swell on his forehead, his eyes fix on her with a bewildered look, and his breath comes quick and fast. Then he droops his head, and a forlorn expression sweeps over his white face. “Don’t laugh at me, for my dead mother’s sake,” he whispers in a hoarse tone. “I am _not_ laughing,” she says slowly, “not laughing one little bit, Hargreaves. Would you think it very fast of me if I said something--something quite out of the way, you know?” “I could not think ill of you, no matter what came,” he replies earnestly. “Well then, here goes! I am ready to be Mrs. Hargreaves as soon as you like.” He stares at her like a man in a dream, and as he lifts his eyes to her lovely little face, Baby’s snowy lids droop over her cerulean orbs, while her mouth twitches with something between a quiver and a smile. He is not a gentleman born and bred, but he has a heart that can love. Blue blood may not flow in his veins, but honest, devoted, even chivalric feelings live in his breast, and he _knows_ that this girl--in spite of the words she has just spoken--is a thing he dare not grasp. No, if her love and her presence are Heaven, the loss of her undying misery and regret, he does not dream of hesitating between them for her dear sake. She has offered herself to him--the sweetest, most precious gift he could have on earth--but sooner than take her, sooner than drag his dainty high-born darling down to his own level, he would shoot himself. “No, no, Miss Mirabelle! I should be a rascal, a cur, if I thought you were in earnest. I have no right to love you; but love is a thing that comes alike to all, and I may feel it so long as I don’t let it harm you, Miss Mirabelle. God bless you for liking me, for speaking to me kindly; but I ask no more than that--only--_only_--may I just kiss your hand--_once_--Miss Mirabelle.” He raises a white, stricken face as he speaks. He has made up his mind to throw up his situation this very night and to go away--to America--Australia--anywhere so that she may never see him again, and regret perhaps that she has spoken to him thus. He will pass right away out of her life, but he wants one kiss of her little white hand to take away with him; that kiss and the locket that holds a bit of her shining hair--his two priceless treasures. Baby’s eyes are full of tears now. The young fellow’s voice has such a ring of pathos in it--a ring she has never heard in the voices of Belgravia--but she says nothing, only pulls off the gauntlet from her right hand and holds it towards him. “_Good-bye_,” he whispers so incoherently that she doesn’t catch the word, and stooping, Hargreaves fastens his trembling lips on the soft white flesh, _when_---- The Chesnut has started forward, and, off her guard and terrified out of her senses, his hapless rider loses all presence of mind and clings on as the horse careers madly along.