The crimson blood rises to her face. Covered with a painful though pretty confusion, she stands quite still, and lets her tell-tale eyes seek the ground. Luttrell has risen, and, without any particular design, has advanced toward her. Perhaps the force of habit compels him to do so; perhaps intense and not altogether welcome surprise. For the future to see her is but to add one more pang to his intolerable regret. "I was writing to you," he says, indicating with a slight movement of the hand the chair on which he has been sitting, and thus breaking the awful silence which threatens to last until next day, so mute has Molly grown. With a delicate sense of chivalry he endeavors to appear oblivious of her rather scanty and disconcerting--however becoming--costume. "But as it is, perhaps I may as well say to you what is on my mind,--if you will permit me." "I cannot forbid your speech." Coldly. "I will not keep you long. But"--with a slight, almost imperceptible, glance at her dressing-gown--"perhaps you are in a hurry?" "I am--rather." At this juncture, had they been friends, Molly would undoubtedly have laughed. As it is, she is profoundly serious. "Still, if it is anything important, I will hear you." "Can I do anything for you?" asks he, hesitating, evidently fearing to approach the desired subject. "Nothing, thank you. I came only for a paper,--left in the blotting-book. If you wish to speak, do so quickly, as I must go." Then, as he still hesitates, "Why do you pause?" "Because I fear incurring your displeasure once again; and surely the passages between us have been bad enough already." "Do not fear." Coldly. "It is no longer in your power to wound me." "True. I should not have allowed that fact to escape me. Yet hear me. It is my love urges me on." "Your--love!" With slow and scornful disbelief. "Yes,--mine. In spite of all that has come and gone, you know me well enough to understand how dear you still are to me. No, you need not say a word. I can see by your face that you will never pardon. There is no greater curse than to love a woman who gives one but bare tolerance in return." "Why did you not think of all this while there was yet time?" "One drifts--until it is too late to seek for remedies. My heaviest misfortune lies in the fact that I cannot root you from my heart." "A terrible misfortune, no doubt,"--with a little angry flash from her azure eyes,--"but one that time will cure." "Will it?" Wistfully. "Shall I indeed learn to forget you, Molly,--to look back upon my brief but happy past as an idle dream? I hardly hope so much." "And would you waste all your best days," asks she, in tones that tremble ever so little, "in thinking of me? Remember all you said,--all you meant,--how 'thankful you were to find me out in time.'"