“It did not seem so bad at first,” she went on, “it was more like a rest to me; but now it is getting very bad. There are days on which I can hardly bear the terrible monotony and loneliness. I have not told Harry so for fear of disturbing him; but I have wished very much to see you and tell you, Mr. Baldwin. I really would rather be a servant,” (a governess she was going to have said, but the association was too painful), “or anything in the world than live on here like this always. You are not angry with me for saying this, Mr. Baldwin? I know it seems childish and selfish, but today I was feeling so—I don’t know what to call it—homesick expresses it best; and I thought it would be such a relief to tell you about it; but I hope you are not vexed with me?” she repeated, looking up at his face beseechingly. “Vexed with you! My dear Miss Vere,” exclaimed Geoffrey. “How can you use such expressions? As if, even if I had a right to be vexed with you, which I have not, anything you could by any possibility say or do, could ever seem to me anything—I am stupid—I can’t make pretty speeches, least of all when I most mean them. Only don’t ever speak as if I could be vexed with you. I am sorry, terribly sorry to see you looking so pale and thin, and to hear how this wretched life is trying you. But what is to be done? There is the difficulty. As I said to you before, I see present no help for it, unless——.” But here he stopped abruptly, his fair face suddenly flushing crimson. “Unless what Mr. Baldwin,” said Marion innocently. “Don’t be afraid to tell me the alternative, however disagreeable. Is there any fresh trouble about our money matters?” “Oh dear no,” replied the young man, thankful that he had not, on the impulse of the moment, wrecked all by a premature betrayal of his hardly-as-yet-to-himself-acknowledged hopes, and eager to distract her attention. “Oh dear no, don’t get anything of that sort into your head. It is true I fear some little time must pass before your affairs are thoroughly settled; but by the spring, at latest, I hope we may hit on some better arrangement.” “By the spring,” repeated Marion, dolefully; “ah, well, it does not much matter. After all, I daresay a good deal of the dullness is in myself. But tell me, Mr. Baldwin, what were you going to say? ‘Unless,’ you began,—unless what?” “Nothing, Miss Vere—nothing, truly,” replied Geoffrey, rather awkwardly; “it was only an idea that struck me, but at present impossible to carry out. Please don’t speak about it.” “Very well,” answered Marion, looking rather puzzled; “I won’t ask you about it if you would rather I did not. I am afraid the truth is I am very difficult to please. I fear in my present mood I should not be happy anywhere, except—” “Except where, Miss Vere?” said Geoffrey, lightly; but Marion looked painfully embarrassed and made no reply. A curious misgiving shot through Mr. Baldwin’s heart; but he did not persist in his inquiry, and turned it off with a jest.