"No doubt. A short time since you said the same thing. Were I to stay now you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it was hanging over me; and--I hate being taken to task." "I will not, I swear I will never again attempt to scold you about anything, experience having taught me the futility of such a course. Cecil, stay." "Lady Stafford, if you please, Sir Penthony." With a tormenting smile. "Lady Stafford then,--anything, if you will only stay." "I can't, then. Where should I be without my beauty sleep? The bare idea fills me with horror. Why, I should lose my empire. Sweet as parting is, I protest I, for one, would not lengthen it until to-morrow. Till then--farewell. And--Sir Penthony--be sure you dream of me. I like being dreamed of by my----" "By whom?" "My slaves," returns this coquette of all coquettes, with a last lingering glance and smile. After which she finally disappears. "There is no use disguising the fact any longer,--I _have_ lost my heart," groans Sir Penthony, in despair, as he straightway carries off both himself and his cherished flowers to the shelter of his own room. CHAPTER XIX. "I'll tell thee a part, Of the thoughts that start To being when thou art nigh." --Shelley. The next day is Sunday, and a very muggy, disagreeable one it proves. There is an indecision about it truly irritating. A few drops of rain here and there, a threatening of storm, but nothing positive. Finally, at eleven o'clock, just as they have given up all hope of seeing any improvement, it clears up in a degree,--against its will,--and allows two or three depressed and tearful sunbeams to struggle forth, rather with a view to dishearten the world than to brighten it. Sunday at Herst is much the same as any other day. There are no rules, no restrictions. In the library may be found volumes of sermons waiting for those who may wish for them. The covers of those sermons are as clean and fresh to-day as when they were placed on their shelves, now many years ago, showing how amiably they _have_ waited. You may play billiards if you like; you need not go to church if you don't like. Yet, somehow, when at Herst, people always do go,--perhaps because they needn't, or perhaps because there is such a dearth of amusements. Molly, who as yet has escaped all explanation with Tedcastle, coming down-stairs, dressed for church, and looking unusually lovely, finds almost all the others assembled before her in the hall, ready to start. Laying her prayer-books upon a table, while with one hand she gathers up the tail of her long gown, she turns to say a word or two to Lady Stafford. At this moment both Luttrell and Shadwell move toward the books. Shadwell, reaching them first, lays his hand upon them. "You will carry them for me?" says Molly, with a bright smile to him; and Luttrell, with a slight contraction of the brow, falls back again, and takes his place beside Lady Stafford.