'Thanks to you, I am miserable there too,' replies she bitterly. She has withdrawn her hand sharply from him; and they now again walk side by side along the platform, begun to be lit up for the evening traffic. 'I think,' says Freddy reproachfully, 'that if you at all gauged the amount of pain that those sort of speeches inflicted, you would be less lavish of them.' As she makes no sort of rejoinder, he continues, with a heavy sigh, 'Where shall you go? Where shall you take her?' 'That can be no concern of yours,' replies she brusquely. 'It will at all events be beyond your pursuit.' The moment that the word is out of her mouth she sees that it is an unfortunate one; and, by the light of a gas-lamp which they are at that moment passing, she detects on Freddy's face a curious smile, which denotes the perception in him of a certain humorousness in the present employment of that particular noun. In this case it is certainly not he that is the pursuer. The station is growing fuller; a train must be expected; not Peggy's, unfortunately, which is still not nearly due. A good many undergraduates have appeared on the platform; several recognise Freddy, and look curiously at his companion. Whether it be their scrutiny that annoys her, or the consciousness of the unlucky character of her last phrase that gives added bitterness to her tone, it is with some asperity that she makes her next observation: 'I hope you are not going to stay to see me off! I had very much rather that you did not.' 'Of course I will not _force_ my society upon you,' replies Freddy in a melancholy voice, under which, however, Margaret fancies that she detects a lurking alacrity; 'however much it may cost me, I will go at once, if you bid me.' 'Then I do bid you,' she answers curtly. 'And you--you will not do anything rash?' he says, looking extremely wheedling, and sinking his voice to a coaxing whisper. 'You will let things go on just as they are for a--for a little while? You--you will trust me?' Her only answer is a derisive laugh. 'You--you will not decide in a hurry; you will take time to consider?' he pursues, with an agitation that seems genuine, following her, for she has already begun resolutely to walk away from him towards the waiting-room. 'You will--you will do nothing _rash_?' 'I do not know what you call rash. I shall write to the agent to-morrow.' 'You will not!' cries he, keeping up with her, and trying to retard her progress. 'You could not be so inhuman. I know that it is a matter of absolute indifference to you what suffering you inflict upon me, but,' with a tremble in his voice, 'you cannot, you must not hurt Prue!' Again she gives that withering laugh. 'No, certainly not! I should not think of it; I leave that to you! Good-bye!' So saying she disappears determinedly from his vision within the waiting-room door. There is nothing left for him but to take the tears out of his smile and the tremor out of his voice, and walk away.