“You will think me jealous and envious now, perhaps, and yet I must tell you that I am sorry you have promised your friendship to Mr. Seabright. I do not like that man. He is different from what he seems--cold at heart and deceitful.” “I thought _every one_ liked him!” she cried. “Every one but me,” he answered frankly; “I am the only one to find a fault in him. And yet his faults are patent to all if they would only realize the fact.” “Tell me of one single blemish!” the girl cried, half-offended. “Very well. He is not sincere. He makes game of the friend he professes to love. He is witty, and they all become targets for his wit. Poor Mrs. Dunn, sitting so happily by his side there, she would never speak to him again if she knew how he talks her over to his friends.” Italy was looking and listening in wonder. Could these facts be true? “He has carried on a flirtation with her for years, and yet she is so blind she will not see that he is only trifling,” continued Emmett. “Yet he has made fun of her from the first time he met her till now. You see that beautiful diamond ring on his little finger? He has told dozens of people that Mrs. Dunn begged him for it the first time he ever called on her, and he said he told her the first ready lie that leaped to his lips, that the ring belonged to his brother. He says she is rapacious, that she lives above her means, and cares for nothing but show and pleasure. Oh, he has said so many things of her that I would hate to repeat, but I call it mean, don’t you? to ridicule a woman, her house, her relations, and everything about her, and still pretend to be her friend, even her lover?” “It is wicked, shameful,” she exclaimed warmly. “How can any one be so deceitful? I am sorry for Mrs. Dunn.” “As to that, she is as mean a woman as he is a man, and if they ever do get married they will be fairly matched. To tell you the truth, I dislike them both, so let’s drop the subject and talk of something pleasanter, for to-morrow I am going to leave Winthrop,” replied the young man, with as indifferent an air as he could assume, for the pain of his rejection, although so gently spoken, still hurt bitterly. “Going away!” she cried. “Yes; back to Boston, and I shall probably sail for Europe next week,” sighed the rejected lover sadly. “Oh, I am so sorry, for I shall miss you very much. You have been so good to me.” “Then perhaps you will relent”--pleadingly--“you will let me try again to win your love. Oh, Italy, think how lonely you are, how alone in the world, and surrounded by people some of whom dislike you, while the others only tolerate you. But I--I worship you, my darling, and I would be so happy if you would only let me marry you and take you away to a happier home.” Profoundly moved as she was by his words, she still shook her head. “I cannot marry you,” she said simply but conclusively.