“Do you know,” said Fanshawe suddenly, after some vague conversation about nothing, “that I know what a poor wretch I am, Miss Heriot? If I was good for anything--if I was of the least consequence in the world, or knew how to make myself so, I should go away.” “Should you?” said Marjory; “I do not see the necessity. Do you know that I think you talk a great deal of nonsense on this point. You cannot expect me to agree with you, seeing what a friend you have been to us; how much you have done for us ever since we knew you. You have been good for everything--” “And yet,” he said, “it is odd if you will think of it--that I have been of no real service whatsoever. I don’t mean to say I had not the best intentions--but there is nothing so feeble as good intentions. About these Macgregors, for instance; they were found before I got back from my wild-goose chase. I meant well, but I did nothing.” “That is not the question,” said Marjory loftily; “their coming was a mere accident. You did everything--the accident came in and balked you. I was half disappointed myself.” “Were you?” he said, looking at her with those melting, glowing eyes which betray secrets. And then he added quite abruptly: “The road is rough, will you take my arm?” Marjory laughed. “I do not see how that follows,” she said, amused. “No, it does not follow; nothing follows in life--except that the road is rough, you know, and facts count for something. They do count for something--not for much, perhaps you will say--” “Indeed, I am not such an infidel; they count for a great deal,” she said, and though she needed no support, she accepted it to give him pleasure. But such was the fantastical nature of the man that, after the first gleam of delight that came across him at the touch of her hand, his brow clouded over. “How good you are, Miss Heriot! too good. You drive me to despair when you are kind to me. Often, do you know, I have wanted to ask you whether, by any chance--people take odd fancies sometimes--you would have me, to try what you could make of me? and then you have been kind, and driven me to despair. It is no use, is it, telling you that I have been a greater fool than usual to-day? Do you know,” he went on, holding her hand tightly in his arm, “if you would have had me, I think something might have come of me, perhaps--” He looked at her so that she could not bear his eyes. It was a curious kind of love-tale; but not, I suppose, less embarrassing than another. She withdrew her hand from his arm with difficulty, and with a little impatience. “Mr. Fanshawe, you vex me when you say such things--of yourself.”