“Indeed, no; if anybody will help me, I am always very thankful,” Lydia replied. And then he turned his eyes upon her. “I think you are mistaken in yourself,” he said, quickly, “we often are. You think women should be independent and manage their own affairs.” Lydia raised her eyebrows a little. “I was not thinking about women, or what they should do. I think everyone, woman or not, likes best to look after their own affairs themselves.” “Do you think so? I have always been brought up to believe that it was a man’s part to take the rough work, and that a woman did well to accept his help.” “Cousin Lionel,” said Lydia, “if you are angry because I went off to Mr. Bonamy’s myself, instead of leaving you to work things your own way, you are surely very unreasonable. I was sure of it; there was not any reason to doubt; and why should I bother you about what I could do so easily? It was my business; you could not be supposed to--take--much interest.” “Trouble me!” he cried, “take much interest! Do you think there is anything you care for that I don’t take an interest in? What is the chief thing I have thought of ever since I knew you? You speak so much at your ease; I wish you would tell me that.” “I hope it is nothing to be angry with me about,” said Lydia, with meekness, “but how can I know?” “No, I suppose you don’t know,” he said, with almost a scornful tone, “you have only seen me every day these five months, and talked to me, and pretended to take some interest in me, as you say; and now you turn upon me and ask me how can you know? How can you help knowing? is what I should say.” “Cousin Lionel, I don’t know why you should be angry. If I had waited for you this morning I should have lost my chance. There was so little time to do anything; and time runs away so fast when it is the last day.” “Do you think I am talking only of this morning? What is this morning? It is all the time I complain of. It has just been the same all the time.” And now it was Lydia’s turn to look round, this time in unfeigned surprise; but her glance at him, perhaps, gave her more information than his words: at least, there was a subtle tone of hypocrisy in the meekness with which she asked. “Have I displeased you all the time?” with a little tragic accent of remonstrance. “I am so sorry,” she said. “Sorry! and displeased! it is not words like those that will do any good,” Lionel cried. Liddy looked at him again piteously, but perhaps in the puckers round her eyes, and the droop of her mouth, there was a dimple or two which the faintest touch could have turned into smiles. She shook her head.