"I am sorry to see you looking so ill," replies she, softly, and then begins to wonder what on earth she shall say next. Mr. Luttrell, with his cane, takes the heads off two unoffending crocuses that, most unwisely, have started up within his reach. He is the gentlest-natured fellow alive, but he feels a vicious pleasure in the decapitation of those yellow, harmless flowers. His eyes are on the ground. He is evidently bent on silence. On such occasions what is there that can be matched in stupidity with a man? "I got your letter," Molly says, awkwardly, when the silence has gone past bearing. "I know." "I did not answer it." "I know that too," with some faint bitterness. "It was too foolish a letter to answer," returns she, hastily, detecting the drop of acid in his tone. "And, even if I had written then, I should only have said some harsh things that might have hurt you. I think I was wise in keeping silence." "You were. But I cannot see how you have followed up your wisdom by having me here to-day." There is a little pause, and, then: "I wanted so much to see you," murmurs she, in the softest, sweetest of voices. He winces, and shifts his position uneasily, but steadily refuses to meet her beseeching eyes. He visits two more unhappy crocuses with capital punishment, and something that is almost a sigh escapes him; but he will not look up, and he will not trust himself to answer her. "Have you grown cruel, Teddy?" goes on Molly, in a carefully modulated tone. "You are killing those poor crocuses that have done you no harm. And you are killing me too, and what harm have _I_ done you? Just as I began to see some chance of happiness before us, you ran away (you a soldier, to show the white feather!), and thereby ruined all the enjoyment I might have known in my good fortune. Was that kind?" "I meant to be kind, Molly; I am kind," replies he huskily. "Very cruel kindness, it seems to me." "Later on you will not think so." "It strikes me, Teddy," says Miss Massereene, reprovingly, "you are angry because poor grandpapa chose to leave me Herst." "Angry? Why should I be angry?" "Well, then, why don't you say you are glad?" "Because I am not glad." "And why? For months and months we were almost crying for money, and when, by some most fortunate and unlooked-for chance, it fell to my lot, you behaved as though some overpowering calamity had befallen you. Why should not you be as glad of it as I am?" "Don't speak like that, Molly," says Luttrell, with a groan. "You know all is over between us. The last time we met in London you yourself broke our engagement, and now do you think I shall suffer you to renew it? I am not so selfish as you imagine. I am no match for you now. You must forget me (it will not be difficult, I dare say), and it would be a downright shame to keep you to--to----"