"Have you got quite reconciled yet? I was afraid of seeing you—of meeting you; but now it seems as if it were a very harmless pleasure. Do you remember the last terrible night?" "There is no use talking of that," she said; "and yet we ought not to meet each other—except—you know——" "As friends, of course," he said, with a smile. "Well, Annie, we shan’t he enemies; but I do think, myself, it were rather more prudent, you understand, that we should not see each other—for a long time, at least. Now, tell me, why are you not at the theatre?" "I have given up the theatre." "You do not mean to act any more?" "No." There suddenly recurred to him Mr. Melton’s significant smile; and dead silence fell upon him. If there could be anything in the notion that the Count—— Clearly, it was no business of his whether she married the Count or no. Nay, if it were possible that her marriage with the Count should blot out certain memories, he ought to have been rejoiced at it. And yet a great dread fell upon him when he thought of this thing; and he felt as though the trusting little hand which was laid upon his arm had no business there, and was an alien touch. "But," he said, in rather an embarrassed way, "if you have given up the theatre, it must have been for some reason——" "For the reason that I could not bear it a moment longer." "And now——" "Now I am free." "Yes, of course, free; but still—what do you propose to do?" "I don’t know yet. I have been looking at some advertisements——" "Have you actually no plan whatever before you?" he said, with surprise—and yet the surprise was not painful. "_None._" "Why," he said, "we have all of us got into a nice condition, just as in a play. I shouldn’t wonder if the next act found the whole of us in a garret, in the dead of winter, of course." "What do you mean?" "My father has lost all his money, and doesn’t know where to turn to keep his household alive. I——" Here he stopped. "Ah," she said, "and you find yourself unable to help them because of your arm." "That will soon be better," he said, cheerfully, "and we will try not to starve. But you—what are you going to do? You do not know people in London; and you do not know the terrible struggle that lies in wait for any unaided girl trying to make a living." "So the Count says." "Oh, you have told the Count?" "Yes." "What did he suggest?" "He thinks I ought to marry him," she said, frankly. "_You_ marry _him_?" "Yes. That was the only way, I daresay, in which he thought he could be of service to me. He really is so very kind, and thoughtful, and unselfish." "And you answered——?" He uttered these words with an air of forced carelessness. He wished her to understand that he would be rather glad if she thought well of the proposal. For a moment she looked at him, questioningly, as if to ask whether there was honest advice in that tone, and then she said, slowly—