There is a breathless pause. The door opens slowly,--slowly. With a gasp that can almost be heard, Molly puts out one hand in the darkness and lays it heavily upon Luttrell's arm. His fingers close over it. "Hush! not a word," whispers he. "Oh, I am so frightened!" returns she. His heart has begun to beat madly. To feel her so close to him, although only through unwished-for accident, is dangerously sweet. By a supreme effort he keeps himself from taking her in his arms and giving her one last embrace; but honor, the hour, the situation, all alike forbid. So he only tightens his clasp upon her hand and smothers a sigh between his lips. Whoever the intruder may be, he, she, or it, is without light; no truth-compelling ray illumines the gloom; and presently, after a slight hesitation, the door is closed again, and the footsteps go lightly, cautiously away through the hall, leaving them once more alone in the long, dark, ghostly drawing-room. Molly draws her hand hurriedly away, and moving quietly from Luttrell's side, breathes a sigh, half relief, half embarrassment; while he, groping his way to the writing-table, finds a match, and, striking it, throws light upon the scene again. At the same moment Molly emerges from the curtains, with a heightened color, and eyes, sweet but shamed, that positively refuse to meet his. "I suppose I can trust you--to--say nothing of all this?" she murmurs, unsteadily. "I suppose you can." Haughtily. His heart is still throbbing passionately; almost, he fears, each separate beat can be heard in the oppressive stillness. "Good-night," says Molly, slowly. "Good-night." Shyly, and still without meeting his gaze, she holds out her hand. He takes it softly, reverently, and, emboldened by the gentleness of her expression, says impulsively: "Answer me a last question, darling,--answer me--_Are_ you going to marry Philip?" And she answers, also impulsively: "No." His face changes; hope once more shines within his blue eyes. Involuntarily he draws up his tall, slight figure to its full height, with a glad gesture that bespeaks returning confidence; then he glances longingly first at Molly's downcast face, then at the small hand that lies trembling in his own. "May I?" he asks, and, receiving no denial, stoops and kisses it warmly once, twice, thrice, with fervent devotion. * * * * * "My dear, how long you have been!" says Cecil, when at length Molly returns to her room. "I thought you were never coming. Where have you been?" "In the drawing-room; and oh, Cecil! _he_ was there. And he would keep me, asking me question after question." "I dare say," says Cecil, looking her over. "That blue _negligee_ is tremendously becoming. No doubt he has still a good many more questions he would like to put to you. And you call yourself a nice, decorous, well-behaved----"