"It is certainly very strange," says Letitia, unmoved by his eloquence to even the faintest glimmer of a smile, so deep is her interest in the subject,--"the very oddest thing. If, now, it were a place where a young man could find any amusement, I would say nothing; but here! Do you know, John,"--mysteriously,--"I have my suspicions." "No!" exclaims Mr. Massereene, betraying the wildest curiosity in voice and gesture,--so wild as to hint at the possibility of its not being genuine. "You don't say so!" "It has once or twice occurred to me----" "Yes?" "I have certainly thought----" "Letitia,"--with authority,--"don't think, or suspect, or let it occur to you any more: _say_ it." "Well, then, I think he is in love with Molly." John breaks into a heavy laugh. "What it is to be a woman of penetration," says he. "So you have found that out. Now, that is where we men fail. But are you certain? Why do you think it?" "I am almost convinced of it," Letitia says, with much solemnity. "Last night I happened to be looking out of one of the windows that overhang the garden, and there in the moonlight (it was quite ten o'clock) I saw Molly give him a red rose; and he took it, and gazed at it as though he were going to devour it; and then he kissed it; and after that he kissed Molly's hand! Now, I don't think, John, unless a young man was--you know--eh?" "I altogether agree with you. Unless a young man _was_, you know, why, he wouldn't--that's all. I am glad, however, he had the grace to stop at the hand,--that it was not Molly's lips he chose instead." "My _dear_ John!" "My darling Letty! have I said anything so very _outre_? Were you never kissed by a young man?" "Only by you," returns Mrs. Massereene, laughing apologetically, and blushing a rare delicate pink that would not have disgraced her at eighteen. "Ah, you may well be excused, considering how you were tempted. It is not every day one meets---- By the bye, Letty, did you cease your eavesdropping at that point?" "Yes; I did not like to remain longer." "Then depend upon it, my dear, you did not see the last act in that drama." "You surely do not think Molly----" "I seldom trouble to think. I only know Luttrell is an uncommonly good-looking fellow, and that the moon is a white witch." "He _is_ good-looking," says Letitia, rising and growing troubled; "he is more than that,--he is charming. Oh, John! if our Molly were to fall in love with him, and grow unhappy about it, what would we do? I don't believe he has anything beyond his pay." "He has something more than that, I know, but not much. The Luttrells have a good deal of spare cash throwing about among them." "But what of that? And a poor man would be wretched for Molly. Remember what an expensive regiment he is in. Why, I suppose as it is he can hardly keep himself. And how would it be with a wife and a large family?"