"What a question!" Lightly. "Perhaps from my own true love. Perhaps it is the little fetter that seals my engagement to him. Perhaps it isn't." "Yet you said just now----" "About that eccentric king? Well, I spoke truly. Royalty has not yet thrown itself at my feet. Still,"--coquettishly,--"that is no reason why I should look coldly upon all commoners." "Be serious, Molly, for one moment," he entreats, the look of passionate earnestness she so much dislikes coming over his face, darkening instead of brightening it. "Sometimes I am half mad with doubt. Tell me the truth,--now,--here. Are you engaged? Is there anything between you and--Luttrell?" The spirit of mischief has laid hold of Molly. She cares nothing at all for Shadwell. Of all the men she has met at Herst he attracts her least. She scarcely understands the wild love with which she has inspired him; she cannot sympathize with his emotion. "Well, if you compel me to confess it," she says, lowering her eyes, 'there is." "It is true, then!" cries he, rising to his feet and turning deadly pale. "My fears did not deceive me." "Quite true. There is a whole long room 'between me' and Mr. Luttrell and"--dropping her voice--"_you_." Here she laughs merrily and with all her heart. To her it is a jest,--no more. "How a woman--the very best woman--loves to torture!" exclaims he, anger and relief struggling in his tone. "Oh, that I dared believe that latter part of your sentence,--that I could stand between you and all the world!" "'Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall,'" quotes Molly, jestingly. "You know the answer? 'If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all.'" "Is that a challenge?" demands he, eagerly, going nearer to her. "I don't know." Waving him back. "Hear the oracle again. I feel strong in appropriate rhyme to-night: "'He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who fears to put it to the touch To win or lose it all.'" They are quite alone. Some one has given the door leading to the adjoining apartment a push that has entirely closed it. Molly, in her white evening gown and pale-blue ribbons, with a bunch of her favorite roses at her breast, is looking up at him, a little mocking smile upon her lips. She is cold,--perhaps a shade amused,--without one particle of sentiment. "I fear nothing," cries Philip, in a low impassioned tone, made unwisely bold by her words, seizing her hands and pressing warm, unwelcome kisses on them; "whether I win or lose, I will speak now. Yet what shall I tell you that you do not already know? I love you,--my idol,--my darling! Oh, Molly! do not look so coldly on me."