"But these hollows?" Touching gently her soft cheeks with a dissatisfied air. They are a little sunk. She is altogether thinner, frailer than of yore. Her very fingers as they lie in his look slenderer, more fragile. "Perhaps a little fretting has done it," she answers, with a smile and a half-suppressed sigh. He echoes the sigh; and it may be a few tears for all the long hours spent apart gather in their eyes, "in thinking of the days that are no more." Presently, when they are calmer, more forgetful of their separation, they seat themselves upon a sofa and fall into a happy silence. His arm is round her; her hand rests in his. "Of what are you thinking, sweetheart?" he asks, after a while, stooping to meet her gaze. "A happy thought," she answers. "I am realizing how good a thing it is 'to feel the arms of my true love round me once again.'" "And yet it was of your own free will they were ever loosened." "Of my free will?" Reproachfully. "No; no." Then, turning away from him, she says, in a low tone, "What did you think when you saw me singing last night?" "That I had never seen you look so lovely in my life." "I don't mean that, Teddy. What did you think when you saw me singing--so?" "I wished I was a millionaire, that I might on the instant rescue you from such a life," replies he, with much emotion. "Ah! you felt like that? I, too, was unhappy. For the first time since I began my new life it occurred to me to be ashamed. To know that you saw me reminded me that others saw me too, and the knowledge brought a flush to my cheek. I am singing again on Tuesday; but you must not come to hear me. I could not sing before you again." "Of course I will not, if it distresses you. May I meet you outside and accompany you home?" "Better not. People talk so much; and--there is always such a crowd outside that door." "The nights _you_ sing. Have you had any lovers, Molly?" asks he, abruptly, with a visible effort. "Several,"--smiling at his perturbation,--"and two _bona fide_ proposals. I might have been the blushing bride of a baronet now had I so chosen." "Was he--rich?" "Fabulously so, I was told. And I am sure he was comfortably provided for, though I never heard the exact amount of his rent-roll." "Why did you refuse him?" asks Luttrell, moodily, his eyes fixed upon the ground. "I shall leave you to answer that question," replies she, with all her old archness. "I cannot. Perhaps because I didn't care for him. Not but what he was a nice old gentleman, and wonderfully preserved. I met him at one of Cecil's 'at homes,' and he professed himself deeply enamored of me. I might also have been the wife of a very young gentleman in the Foreign Office, with a most promising moustache; but I thought of you,"--laughing, and giving his hand a little squeeze,--"and I bestowed upon him such an emphatic 'No' as turned his love to loathing." "To-morrow or next day you may have a marquis at your feet, or some other tremendous swell--and----"