"No; only my love, and that sort of thing," returned Noel, coolly, as he cut himself another slice of bread. And then, contrary to his custom, for he was one of the most talkative and sociable of men, Ingram relapsed into silence. "Feels a bit grumpy, I fancy," thought Noel, with a suppressed grin. "If I ever have a young woman, I wonder if I should feel in that way. Why, the poor old chap has had hardly any breakfast." And Noel shook his head solemnly, and adjusted his _pince-nez_, and then helped himself liberally to the cold game pie. Ingram's knowledge of invalids and sick-rooms was purely rudimentary. He had a theory that sick people must be treated like children. They must be coaxed, amused, and made as cheerful as possible; there must be no agitation, no bringing forward of exciting or perplexing topics, no undue warmth of expression and feeling. "I must be perfectly cool and quiet," Ingram said to himself, as he came in sight of the house. "I must not let her see what I have gone through all this time; Monsieur Blackie must take no liberties--he must be just kind and friendly." But as the brougham stopped, Ingram looked a little pale, although he put on his usual sprightly air as he went up the courtyard. Pride must have its fall, says the old proverb. And perhaps Ingram, who was an Idealist, relied a little too much on his theories and good intentions; as Noel would have said, he was too cocksure of himself. Anyhow, when Ann, of the heavy foot, ushered him up to the old studio, where he and Everard Ward had passed so many hours of misery and suspense, and he saw Mollie's sweet face, flushing and paling with shy pleasure, Ingram found himself unable to say a word for the sudden choking sensation in his throat; he could only stand there like a fool, holding the thin little hand that Mollie had silently held out to him. "Won't you sit down?" observed Mollie, faintly; but her lips trembled as she spoke, for Ingram's dumb emotion almost frightened her. It was so unlike her dear old friend, Monsieur Blackie, to stand there without a word of kindly greeting. Mollie's flower-like face grew painfully suffused. "Do please sit down," she faltered, with a growing sense of discomfort and helplessness. Ingram did as he was bid, but he did not relinquish her hand. "Mollie," he said, and his eyes were dim with a man's trouble, and the passionate tenderness, that he was trying bravely to repress, was so evident in his voice and manner that even Mollie, innocent and guileless as she was, thrilled in every nerve. "Perhaps I had better go away," he stammered. "I shall tire you, agitate you, if I stay. I must not say what I think, and, by Heaven, I cannot talk platitudes, when you have come back from the very valley of the shadow of death. Mollie, shall I go?--for I cannot answer for myself, if I remain!"