"For her sake?" he repeated, staring. "If she is indifferent how can that matter to her? Well, I suppose I am a nuisance to her--as much as I am to myself. There it is: I am an interloper." "My poor boy," his cousin said with a kindly smile, "you don't know your own mind two minutes running. During this past week you have been blown about by all sorts of contrary winds of opinion and fancy. Sometimes you thought she cared for you--sometimes no. Sometimes you thought it a shame to interfere with Mr. Roscorla; then again you grew indignant and would have slaughtered him. Now you don't know whether you ought to go away or stop to persecute her. Don't you think she is the best judge?" "No, I don't," he said. "I think she is no judge of what is best for her, because she never thinks of that. She wants somebody by her to insist on her being properly selfish." "That would be a pretty lesson." "A necessary one, anyhow, with some women, I can tell you. But I suppose I must go, as she says. I couldn't bear meeting her about Eglosilyan and be scarcely allowed to speak to her. Then when that hideous little beast comes back from Jamaica, fancy seeing them walk about together! I must cut the whole place. I shall go into the army: it's the only profession open to a fool like me; and they say it won't be long open, either. When I come back, Jue, I suppose you'll be Mrs. Tressider." "I am very sorry," his cousin said, not heeding the reference to herself: "I never expected to see you so deep in trouble, Harry. But you have youth and good spirits on your side: you will get over it." "I suppose so," he said, not very cheerfully; and then he went off to see about the carriage which was to take Wenna and himself for their last drive together. At the same time that he was talking to his cousin, Wenna was seated at her writing-desk answering Mr. Roscorla's letter. Her brows were knit together: she was evidently laboring at some difficult and disagreeable task. Her mother, lying on the sofa, was regarding her with an amused look: "What is the matter, Wenna? That letter seems to give you a deal of trouble." The girl put down her pen with some trace of vexation in her face: "Yes indeed, mother. How is one to explain delicate matters in a letter? Every phrase seems capable of misconstruction. And then the mischief it may cause!" "But surely you don't need to write with such care to Mr. Roscorla?" Wenna colored slightly, and hesitated as she answered, "Well, mother, it is something peculiar. I did not wish to trouble you, but, after all, I don't think you will vex yourself about so small a thing. Mr. Roscorla has been told stories about me. He is angry that Mr. Trelyon should visit us so often. And--and--I am trying to explain. That is all, mother."