“Such fun! Then, of course, we should have to arrange for romantic meetings, and secret interviews, and you would write little letters and put them in a prayer-book in our pew; and watch to get a glimpse of me as I go in and out of places; and stand on the opposite side of the street each night, till you saw the light in my room put out. Oh! What fun it will be!” “It might be raining,” complained Freddy. “All the better. That would prove your devotion. Don’t you love me enough to do that?” “Yes,” said Freddy, meekly, “but I hate getting wet. Sometimes one catches a nasty cold.” “Any one who tells a girl he loves her with a fervour and passion never yet equalled by man should not think of such things,” asserted Frances, disapprovingly. Freddy had an idea that a girl who reciprocated such a passion should not seem so happy over the prospect of her lover undergoing the exposure, but the youth did not know how to express it. So he proposed: “Let’s keep it a secret for the present.” “Let’s,” assented Frances. “We won’t tell any one for a long time, but just have it all to ourselves. And when I am riding in the morning you must join me; the groom will think it’s all right. And whenever papa and mama are to be out in the evening, I’ll put a lamp in my window, and—” Ting! It seemed as if some of the electric current which made that distant muffled ring had switched and passed through the happy pair. Both started guiltily, and then both listened with the greatest intentness; so intensely, that after a moment’s pause they could hear the soft gliding sound of the footman’s list slippers as they travelled down the hallway; could hear the click of the lock as he opened the front door; could hear the murmur of voices; could hear the door closed. Then, after a moment’s silence, a voice, for the first time articulate to them, said: “I’ll wait in the morning room.” “Freddy,” gasped the girl, “it’s that horrid Mr. Potter. Quick!” Both had arisen from the sofa, and Freddy looked about in a very badly perplexed condition. He was quite willing, but about what was he to be quick? “Sit down in that chair,” whispered the girl, pointing to one at a more than proper distance, and Freddy sprinted for it, and sat down. The girl resumed her seat on the little sofa, and putting her hands in a demure position, rather contradictory to her quick breathing and flushed cheeks, began: “As you were saying, the De Reszke brothers were the only redeeming— Oh! Good evening, Mr. Potter.” “Good evening, Frances,” responded a tall, rather slender, strong-featured man, attired in evening dress, who had leisurely strolled into the room, and who did not offer to go through the form of shaking hands. “Talking to the fire?” “No. Freddy and I were chatting about the opera.” Mr. Potter put on his glasses and languidly surveyed the region of the fireplace. Then he turned and extended his investigation, till his eyes settled on Freddy, stuck away in the dim distance.