"And so you are not in love with Herst?" he says, presently, as they move on through the sweet wood, his arm around her. "With Herst? No, I have no fault to find with Herst; the place is beautiful. But I confess I do not care about my grandfather or Marcia: of the two I prefer my grandfather, but that is saying very little. Philip alone has been very nice to me,--indeed, more than kind." "More! What does Marcia say to that?" "Oh, there is nothing between them; I am sure of that. They either hate each other or else familiarity has bred contempt between them, and they avoid each other all they can, and never speak unless compelled. For instance, she says to him, 'Tea or coffee, Philip?' and he makes her a polite reply; or he says to her, 'Shall I stir the fire for you?' and she makes _him_ a polite reply. But it can hardly be called a frantic attachment." "Like ours?" laughing and bending his tall slight figure to look into her face. "In our case you have all the franticness to yourself," she says; but as she says it she puts her own soft little hand over the one that encircles her waist, to take the sting out of her words; though why she said it puzzles even herself: nevertheless there is great truth, in her remark, and he knows it. "Then Philip is handsome," she says: "it is quite a pleasure to look at him. And I admire him very much." "He _is_ a good-looking fellow," reluctantly, and as though it were a matter of surprise nature's having bestowed beauty upon Philip Shadwell, "but surly." "'Surly!' not to me." "Oh, of course not to you! A man must be a brute to be uncivil to a woman. And I don't say he is that," slowly, and as though it were yet an undecided point whether Philip should be classed with the lower creation or not. "Do not let your admiration for him go too far, darling; remember----" "About that," interrupts she, hurriedly, "you have something to remember also. Your promise to keep our engagement a dead secret. You will not break it?" "I never," a little stiffly, "break a promise. You need not have reminded me of this one." Silence. Glancing up at her companion stealthily, Molly can see his lips are in a degree compressed, and that for the first time since their reunion his eyes are turned determinedly from her. Her heart smites her. So good as he is to her, she has already hurt and wounded him. With a little caressing, tender movement, she rubs her cheek up and down against his sleeve for a moment or two, and then says, softly: "Are you cross with me, Teddy? Don't then. I am so glad, so happy, to have you with me again. Do not spoil this one good hour by putting a nasty unbecoming little frown upon your forehead. Come, turn your face to me again: when you look at me, I know you will smile, for my sake." "My own darling," says Luttrell, passionately. * * * * *