"It is unbearable," says Molly, angrily. "Does he think such a paltry thing as money could interfere with my affection for him?" "Molly, beware! You are bordering on the heroics now. Money is not a paltry thing; it is about the best thing going. _I_ can sympathize with Tedcastle if you cannot. He felt he had no right to claim the promise of such a transcendently beautiful being as you, now you have added to your other charms twenty thousand a year. He thinks of your future; he acknowledges you a bride worthy any duke in the land (men in love"--maliciously--"_will_ dote, you know); he thinks of the world and its opinion, and how fond they are of applying the word 'fortune-hunter' when they get the chance, and it is not a pretty sobriquet." "He should have thought of nothing but me. Had he come into a fortune," says Molly, severely, "I should have been delighted, and I should have married him instantly." "Quite so. But who ever heard the opprobrious term 'fortune-hunter' given to a woman? It is the legitimate thing for us to sell ourselves as dearly as we can." "But, Cecil,"--forlornly,--"what am I to do now?" "If you will take my advice, nothing,--for two or three weeks. He cannot sail for India before then, and do his best. Preserve an offended silence. Then obtain an interview with him by fair means, or, if not, by foul." "You unscrupulous creature!" Molly says, smiling; but after a little reflection she determines to abide by her friend's counsel. "Horrible, hateful letter," she says, tearing it up and throwing it out of the window. "I wish I had never read you. I am happier now you are gone." "So am I. It was villainously worded and very badly written." "I don't know that," begins Molly, warmly; and then she stops short, and they both laugh. "And you, Cecil--what of you? Am I mistaken in thinking you and Sir Penthony are--are----" "Yes, we are," says Cecil, smiling and coloring brilliantly. "As you so graphically express it, we actually--_are_. At present, like you, we are formally engaged." "Really?"--delighted. "I always knew you loved him. And so you have given in at last?" "Through sheer exhaustion, and merely with a view to stop further persecution. When a man comes to you day after day, asking you whether you love him yet, ten to one you say yes in the end, whether it be the truth or not. We all know what patience and perseverance can do. But I desire you, Molly, never to lose sight of the fact that I am consenting to be his only to escape his importunities." "I quite understand. But, dear Cecil, I am so rejoiced." "Are you, dear?"--provokingly. "And why?--I thought to have a second marriage, if only for the appearance of the thing; but it seems I cannot. So we are going to Kamtschatka, or Bath, or Timbuctoo, or Hong-Kong, or Halifax, for our wedding tour, I really don't know which, and I would not presume to dictate. That is, if I do not change my mind between that and this." "And when is that?"