Sir William laughed as much at the arch quietness of her manner as her words. “How blind I have been all this time!” burst he in, angrily, as he reverted to the subject of his chagrin. “I suppose there's not another man living would not have seen this but myself.” “No, no,” said she, gently; “men are never nice observers in these matters.” “Well, better late than never, eh, Mrs. Morris? Better to know it even now. Forewarned,--as the adage says,--eh?” In these little broken sentences he sought to comfort himself, while he angled for some consolation from his companion; but she gave him none,-- not a word, nor a look, nor a gesture. “Of course I shall forbid him the house.” “And make a hero of him from that moment, and a martyr of her,” quietly replied she. “By such a measure as this you would at once convert what may be possibly a passing flirtation into a case of love.” “So that I am to leave the course free, and give him every opportunity to prosecute his suit?” “Not exactly. But do not erect barriers just high enough to be surmounted. Let him come here just as usual, and I will try if I cannot entangle him in a little serious flirtation with myself, which certainly, if it succeed, will wound May's pride, and cure her of any weakness for him.” Sir William made no reply, but he stared at the speaker with a sort of humorous astonishment, and somehow her cheek flushed under the look. “These are womanish artifices, which you men hold cheaply, of course; but little weapons suit little wars, Sir William, and such are our campaigns. At all events, count upon my aid till Monday next.” “And why not after?” “Because the Peninsular and Oriental packet touches at Malta on Saturday, and Clara and I must be there in time to catch it.” “Oh no; we cannot spare you. In fact, we are decided on detaining you. May would break up house here and follow you to the Pyramids,--the Upper Cataracts,--anywhere, in short. But leave us you must not.” She covered her face with her handkerchief, and never spoke, but a slight motion of her shoulders showed that she was sobbing. “I have been so uncandid with you all this time,” said she, in broken accents. “I should have told you all,--everything. I ought to have confided to you the whole sad story of my terrible bereavement and its consequences; but I could not. No, Sir William, I could not endure the thought of darkening the sunshine of all the happiness I saw here by the cloud of my sorrows. When I only saw faces of joy around me, I said to my heart, 'What right have I, in my selfishness, to obtrude here?' And then, again, I bethought me, 'Would they admit me thus freely to their hearth and home if they knew the sad, sad story?' In a word,” said she, throwing down the handkerchief, and turning towards him with soft and tearful eyes, “I could not risk the chance of losing your affection, for you might have censured, you might have thought me too unforgiving,--too relentless!”