"I do not," with surprise. "What has put such an idea into your head? If I did, why be engaged to you at any time? It is a great deal more likely, when you come to know me better, that you will throw me over." "Don't build your hopes on that," says Luttrell, grimly, with a rather sad smile. "I am not the sort of fellow likely to commit suicide; and to resign you would be to resign life." "Well," says Molly, "if I am ever to say anything on the subject I may as well say it now; and I must confess I think you are behaving very foolishly. I may be--I probably am--good to look at; but what is the use of that? You, who have seen so much of the world, have, of course, known people ten times prettier than I am, and--perhaps--fonder of you. And still you come all the way down here to this stupid place to fall in love with me, a girl without a penny! I really think," winds up Molly, growing positively melancholy over his lack of sense, "it is the most absurd thing I ever heard in my life." "I wish I could argue with your admirable indifference," says he, bitterly. "If I was indifferent I would not argue," says Molly, offended. "I would not trouble myself to utter a word of warning. You ought to be immensely obliged to me instead of sneering and wrinkling up all your forehead into one big frown. Are you going to be angry again? I do hope," says Molly, anxiously, "you are not naturally ill-tempered, because, if so, on no account would I have anything to do with you." "I am not," replies he, compelled to laughter by her perturbed face. "Reassure yourself. I seldom forget myself in this way. And you?" "Oh, I have a fearful temper," says Molly, with a charming smile; "that is why I want to make sure of yours. Because two tyrants in one house would infallibly bring the roof about their ears. Now, Mr. Luttrell, that I have made this confession, will you still tell me you are not frightened?" "Nothing frightens me," whispers he, holding her to his heart and pressing his lips to her fair, cool cheek, "since you are my own,--my sweet,--my beloved. But call me Tedcastle, won't you?" "It is too long a name." "Then alter it, and call me----" "Teddy? I think I like that best; and perhaps I shall have it all to myself." "I am afraid not," laughing. "All the fellows in the regiment christened me 'Teddy' before I had been in a week." "Did they? Well, never mind; it only shows what good taste they had. The name just suits you, you are so fair and young, and handsome," says Molly, patting his cheek with considerable condescension. "Now, one thing more before we go in to receive our scolding: you are not to make love to me again--not even to mention the word--until a whole week has passed: promise." "I could not." "You must." "Well, then, it will be a pie-crust promise." "No, I forbid you to break it. I can endure a little of it now and again," says Molly, with intense seriousness, "but to be made love to always, every day, would kill me."