"Never mind Potts. I am thinking principally of Shadwell. Of course, you are quite at liberty to spend your time with whom you choose, but at all events I have the right to know what you mean seriously to do. You have to decide between Shadwell and me." "I shall certainly not be rude to Philip," Molly says, decisively, leaning against the trunk of a flowering tree, and raising defiant, beautiful violet eyes to his. "You seem to pass your time very agreeably with Marcia. I do not complain, mind, but I like fairness in all things." "I thought little country girls like you were all sweetness, and freshness, and simplicity," says Luttrell, with sudden vehemence. "What lies one hears in one's lifetime! Why, you might give lessons in coquetry and cruelty to many a town-bred woman." "Might I? I am glad you appraise me so highly. I am glad I have escaped all the 'sweetness, and freshness,' and general imbecility the orthodox village maiden is supposed to possess. Though why a girl must necessarily be devoid of wit simply because she has spent her time in good, healthy air, is a thing that puzzles me. Have you delayed me only to say this?" "No, Molly," cries Luttrell, desperately, while Molly, with cool fingers and a calm face, plucks a flower to pieces, "it is impossible you can have so soon forgotten. Think of all the happy days at Brooklyn, all the vows we interchanged. Is there inconstancy in the very air at Herst?" His words are full of entreaty, his manner is not. There is an acidity about the latter that irritates Molly. "All Irish people are fickle," she says recklessly, "and I am essentially Irish." "All Irish people are kind-hearted, and you are not so," retorts he. "Every hour yields me an additional pang. For the last two days you have avoided me,--you do not care to speak to me,--you----" "How can I, when you spend your entire time upbraiding me and accusing me of things of which I am innocent?" "I neither accuse nor upbraid; I only say that----" "Well, I don't think you can say much more,"--maliciously,--"because--I see Philip coming." He has taken her hand, but now, stung by her words and her evident delight at Shadwell's proximity, flings it furiously from him. "If so, it is time I went," he says, and turning abruptly from her, walks toward the corner that must conceal him from view. A passing madness seizes Molly. Fully conscious that Luttrell is still within hearing, fatally conscious that it is within her power to wound him and gain a swift revenge for all the hard words she chooses to believe he has showered down on her, she sings,--slightly altering the ideas of the poet to suit her own taste,--she sings, as though to the approaching Philip: "He is coming, my love, my sweet! Was it ever so airy a tread, My heart would know it and beat, Had it lain for a century dead."