This tender insinuation blots out all remaining vapors, leaving the atmosphere clear and free of clouds for the rest of their walk, which lasts till almost evening. Just before they reach the house, Luttrell says, with hesitation: "I have something to say to you, but I am afraid if I do say it you will be angry." "Then _don't_ say it," says Miss Massereene, equably. "That is about the most foolish thing one can do. To make a person angry unintentionally is bad enough, but to know you are going to do it, and to say so, has something about it rash, not to say impertinent. If you are fortunate enough to know the point in the conversation that is sure to rouse me to wrath, why not carefully skirt round it?" "Because I lose a chance if I leave it unsaid; and you differ so widely from most girls--it may not provoke _you_." "Now you compel me to it," says Molly, laughing. "What! do you think I could suffer myself to be considered a thing apart? Impossible. No one likes to be thought odd or eccentric except rich old men, and Bohemians, and poets; therefore I insist on following closely in my sisters' footsteps, and warn you I shall be in a furious passion the moment you speak, whether or not I am really annoyed. Now go on if you dare?" "Well, look here," begins Luttrell, in a conciliating tone. "There is not the slightest use in your beating about the bush, Teddy," says Miss Massereene, calmly. "I am going to be angry, so do not waste time in diplomacy." "Molly, how provoking you are!" "No! Am I? Because I wish to be like other women?" "A hopeless wish, and a very unwise one." "'Hopeless!' And why, pray?" With a little uplifting of the straight brows and a little gleam from under the long curled lashes. "Because," says her lover, with fond conviction, "you are so infinitely superior to them, that they would have to be born all over again before you could bring yourself to fall into their ways." "What! every woman in the known world?" "Every one of them, I am eternally convinced." "Teddy," says Molly, rubbing her cheek in her old caressing fashion against his sleeve, and slipping her fingers into his, "you may go on. Say anything you like,--call me any name you choose,--and I promise not to be one bit angry. There!" When Luttrell has allowed himself time to let his own strong brown fingers close upon hers, and has solaced himself still further by pressing his lips to them, he takes courage and goes on, with a slightly accelerated color: "Well, you see, Molly, you have made the subject a forbidden one, and--er--it is about our engagement I want to speak. Now, remember your promise, darling, and don't be vexed with me if I ask you to shorten it. Many people marry and are quite comfortable on five hundred pounds a year; why should not we? I know a lot of fellows who are doing uncommonly well on less." "Poor fellows!" says Molly, full of sympathy.