"That is the worst of it," says Luttrell, with questionable taste, biting his moustache. "Well"--angrily--"I see you are as bent on having your own way as ever. Tell me about this mighty plan of yours." "I cannot, indeed, and you must not ask me. If I did tell you, probably you would scoff at it, or perhaps be angry, and I will not let myself be discouraged. It is quite useless your pressing me about this matter. I will not tell." "And do you mean to tell me you purpose going alone into the great London world to seek your fortune, without a protector? You must be mad." "I have Letitia." "Letitia"--indignantly--"is a very handsome woman, not more than ten years older than yourself. _She_ a protector!" "I can't help that." "Yes, you can; but your--obstinacy--won't allow you. Do you, then, intend to let no one know of your affairs?" "I shall confide in Cecil Stafford, because I can't avoid it. But I know she will keep my secret until I give her leave to speak." "It comes to this, then, that you consider every one before me. It is nothing to you whether I eat my heart out in ignorance of whether you are alive or dead." "Cecil"--hastily--"may tell you so much." "Thank you; this is a wonderful concession." "Why should I concede at all, when, as I have said, you are no longer bound to me?" "But I am,--more strongly so than ever; and I insist, I desire you, Molly, to let me know what it is you intend doing." He looks sterner than one would have conceived possible for him; Miss Massereene evidently thinks him inhumanly so. "Don't speak to me like that," she says, with quivering lips. "You should not. I have made a vow not to disclose my secret to you of all people, and would you have me break it?" "But why?" impatiently. "Because--have I not told you already?--because"--with a little dry sob--"I love you so dearly that to encourage thoughts of you would unfit me for my work. And it is partly for your own sake I do it, for something tells me we shall never marry each other; and why should you spend your life dreaming of a shadow?" "It is the cruelest resolution a woman ever formed," replies he, ignoring as beneath notice the latter part of her speech, and, putting away her hands, takes once more to his irritable promenade up and down the room. Molly is crying, silently, exhaustedly. "My burden is too heavy for me," she murmurs, faintly. "Then why not let me help you to bear it?" "If it will comfort you, Teddy"--brokenly--"I will give in so far as to promise to write to you in six months. I ask you to wait till then. Is it too long? If so, remember you are free--believe me it will be better so--and I perhaps shall be happier in the thought----" And here incontinently she breaks down.