"Awfully," I say, with charming candor. "What can there be better than a lot of it? I shall have plenty when I marry you, Marmaduke, shall I not?" "As much as ever you want," replies he; but there is no warmth in his tones. "Don't make rash promises. Perhaps I shall want ever so much. Do you know I never had more than two pounds all together at a time in my life, and that only once? My godfather gave it to me the year before last, and it took Billy and me a whole week to decide how we should spend it." "Well?" absently. "Well"--utterly unabashed--"finally we divided it into four half-sovereigns. With one we bought a present for mother, and were going to do the same for Dora, only she said she would rather have the money itself than anything we would select. Then Billy bought a puppy he had been longing for for a month with the third, besides a lot of white rats--odious little things with no hair on their tails--and a squirrel; and--and that's all," I wind up abruptly. "What did you do with the other half-sovereign? asks 'Duke, more from want of something to say than from any overpowering curiosity. "Oh, nothing--nothing," I answer, feeling slightly confused, I don't know why. "I cannot remember, it is so long ago." "Only the year before last, by your own account, and I know your memory to be excellent. Come, tell me what you did with it." As he grows obstinate, so do I, and therefore answer with gay evasion. "What would I do with it but one thing? Of course I bought a present for my sweetheart." Surely some capricious spirit inhabits this room. For the second time since we entered it Marmaduke's countenance lowers. "Why, what is the matter now?" I ask, impatiently. "What are you looking so cross about?" "I am not cross," indignantly. "What is there to make me so? There is no reason why you should not have innumerable sweethearts as well as every other woman." "Oh!" I say; and his last speech having made me aware that the word "sweetheart" has been the cause of all the ill temper, I go on wickedly, "why, none indeed; and this particular one of whom I speak was such a darling! So good to me, too, as he was--I never received an unkind word or a cross look from him. Ah! I shall never forget him." "You are right there. No virtue is as admirable as sincerity. I wonder how you could bring yourself to resign so desirable a lover." "I didn't resign him. Circumstances over which we had no control arose, and separated his lot from mine." Here I sigh heavily, and cast my eyes upon the ground with such despairing languor as would have done credit to an Amanda--or a Dora. "If I am to be considered one of the 'circumstances' in this matter," says my lover, hotly, "I may tell you at once I do not at all envy the position. I have no desire to come between you and your affections."