She blushes furiously. "Them--did I say them? Oh! I meant _him_, of course--Jack." "Does he always speak of himself in the plural, like a king, or a reviewer?" "Nonsense!" cries Esther, pulling away her hand rather impatiently. "Do you never make slips of the tongue?" "Frequently. Well, you must write and tell _them_" (with a laughing emphasis on the _them_) "that they must get some one else to darn their socks, for that you have found something better to do." "I could not have anything better," she answers, reddening with indignation. "You don't understand about Jack, or you would not make jokes!" "It is a fault I'm not often guilty of; being funny never was my besetting sin," he answers, drily. "Essie, whenever you do go home, I have a great mind to go with you--if you will invite me." "Oh, no, don't!" she cries, with involuntary eagerness, the pencil dropping from between her fingers. "I believe you are ashamed of me," he says, angrily, walking off to the window to hide the flush of vexation which is invading his weather-worn cheeks. "Ashamed of myself more likely," she cries, jumping up suddenly and following him. "Why?" "You fine gentlemen do not understand the "'short and simple annals of the poor,'" she answers, with a forced laugh. "You would probably be in the position of Mother Hubbard's singularly ill-used dog; "When you came there, The cupboard was bare.'" "You think that gluttony, like gout, must be hereditary," says Gerard, laughing again, and yet looking very tender withal--not with the puling, milk-and-water tenderness of a green love-sick boy, but with the condensed, strong passion of a world-worn, world-tainted, half world-weary-grown man. "There are other reasons too," says Essie, drooping her eyelids, over which the small blue veins-- "wandering, leave a tender stain--" with a maiden's shyness, under the new-known fire of a lover's gaze. "What other reasons?" "I have never mentioned anything about you to Jack!" she answers, twisting her one paltry ring round her finger. "I don't suppose he is aware of your existence, unless he has bought a new 'Baronetage' since I left home--a piece of extravagance that I do not think he is likely to have been guilty of: and he would think it so odd if I were to appear suddenly on the scene, dragging you in tow." "That would be easily explained," replies St. John, gravely, drawing himself up, and looking rather too conscious of the eight centuries of Norman blood in his strong veins. "I suppose that a man may be allowed to travel for a few hours in company with his future wife without any one being straightlaced enough or behind the world enough to call it _odd!_"