Meantime, Townley’s visits grow more frequent; but no more so than Derwent’s; and poor Mamie is quite puzzled and troubled between the two. All her maiden’s dreams are yet of Townley, and gilded with his social splendor; but she secretly bought a copy of Derwent’s “Travels in the Desert” and read it on the sly. She was surprised to find the book was all about the East End of London; and a friend told her that if she had wanted his real adventures, she should have read “The Treasures of the King.” Yet she is sure she does not care for him, and indeed will tell him so, if she shall ever have the chance. She has the chance, and very soon--some three days before the great Duval ball. But it is hard for a maiden at such times to be very speedy with her tongue; particularly when the man is a very strong one, whom she is very much afraid of, and yet holds in some reverence; and who has a marvellous blue fire in his two deep eyes. Still, Mamie does refuse him; and he only seems to plead the more; as if the refusal were the one thing needed to put new heart into him. And he takes her trembling hand--there is a magnetism in his own brown and steady one that is not to be resisted--and begs at least for some respite--three months’ consideration--a month’s, at least--and there is something strangely thrilling in hearing a brave man talk to you of his love, his love, for you, just you, and not some outside person--and Mamie knows not how, but somehow, strangely, finds herself in tears. And then, as he draws still closer to her, the door opens and Gracie comes in. She starts back, of course, but it is too late, and the man has sprung to his feet, and she is still sillily blushing and crying. What is it that makes Mr. Derwent’s face turn, as he stands there, so strangely white? His voice is strong enough after a second, though, and he speaks almost instantly. “I beg you, do not go, Miss Holyoke. You have seen quite too much to have any doubt; nor need there be embarrassment about so plain a thing. I know that--that your kind heart loves your cous--loves Miss Livingstone--more than all the world, and you will surely tell her what is best. As--as you must have fancied, I have asked her to marry me. Unhappily, I have not seemed worthy to her; and I only beg her now for some delay.” Yet there was a curious dead level about Derwent’s voice, as if he dare not trust himself on more than one key; and Gracie’s quiet eyes turn on his with some wonder. There is a silence broken only by Mamie’s sobbing. She had no idea such fun would prove so little mirthful, for she knew very well that she did not care for Lionel Derwent, who was old enough to be her father, and yet, as it seemed, he really loved her.