"Oh, fiddlesticks!" says the dear boy. "Draw a line somewhere. You have said too much; and I've outgrown my belief in the 'Arabian Nights.' I will be quite content with the dog and gun." "Well, you shall see. And Roland shall have money every now and then to pay his debts; and Dora shall have as many new dresses as she can wear; and for Mamma I will get one of those delightful easy-chairs we saw in the shop-window in Carston, the one that moves up and down, you know--and--- Oh, Billy! I think it is a glorious thing to be rich. If I could only do all I say, I believe I would marry him were he as ugly as sin." In the enthusiasm of the moment I spring to my feet, and as I do so become fatally aware that not two yards from me stands Marmaduke, leaning against a tree. There is a curious, not altogether amiable, expression upon his face, that assures me he has overheard our conversation. Yet one cannot accuse him of eavesdropping, as if we had only taken the trouble to raise our heads our eyes must inevitably have met his. I am palsied with shame and horror; I am stricken dumb; and Billy, looking lazily upwards from where he is stretched full length upon the sward to discover the cause, in his turn becomes aware of the enemy's presence. A moment later he is on his feet and has beaten a retreat, leaving me alone to face the foe. Mr. Carrington comes slowly forward. "Yes, I heard every word," he says, calmly, anger and reproach in his eyes. I make no reply: I feel myself incapable of speech. Indeed, looking back upon it now, I think silence was the better part, as, under the circumstances, I don't quite see what I could have said. "So this is the light in which you regard our marriage!" he goes on bitterly: "as a means to an end--no more. At the close of six months I find myself as far from having gained a place in your affections as when we first met. I may well despair. Your heart seems full of thought and love for every one, Phyllis, except for the man you have promised to marry." "Then give me up," I say, defiantly, though my false courage sinks as I remember what a row there will be at home if he takes me at my word. "No, I will _not_ give you up. I will marry you in spite of your coldness: I am more determined on it now than ever," he makes answer, almost fiercely. I feel uneasy, not to say unhappy. I have heard of men marrying women for spite and revenging themselves upon them afterwards. This recollection is not reassuring. I glance at Marmaduke furtively, and persuade myself he is looking downright vindictive. "Yes," I murmur, doubtfully, "and perhaps, afterwards, when I was your wife, you would be cruel to me, and---" "Phyllis," he interrupts me, hastily, "what are you saying? Who has put such a detestable idea into your head? _I_ unkind to you, or cruel! Child, can you not even _imagine_ the depth of the love I bear you?"