For the moment he was too much astonished to answer, and she spoke again, quietly, but with an under-current of indignation which drove her charges home. “Why should I care for you, when you have never shown the slightest consideration for me? Have you ever thought what a position I should have been in, but for Lady Haigh’s kindness, when I landed at Bab-us-Sahel? No, I know it was not your fault that the letters miscarried; but you know you had no wish to see me when you heard I had arrived. You were glad--glad--to be rid of the bond, and so was I. And then you got Colin on your side--why, I don’t know--and made him persuade me to renew my promise, because it would be a help and comfort to you, and you could work better if you saw me now and then. You have never been near me if you could possibly help it, and for all the help and comfort I have been to you I might as well have been at home. You may say I don’t care for you if you like, but I know very well that you don’t care for me.” “But I do!” cried Ferrers involuntarily. “On my honour, Pen, I never knew what there was in you before. You are the girl for me. I always felt you could keep me straight, but it never struck me till now how sharply you could pull a fellow up.” “You seem not to understand that I don’t want the task. I wish you to give me back my promise.” “I won’t, then. Come, Pen, we shall have a week together now, and I’ll show you I do care for you. Let’s forget all that’s gone by, and begin again. I have fallen in love with you this moment--yes, by Jove! I have”--he spoke with pleased surprise--“and we’ll be as happy as the day is long.” “You don’t seem to see----” began Penelope, in a scared tone. “Oh well, if you are going to bear malice----” he spoke huffily. “I hadn’t thought it of you. Why shouldn’t you let bygones be bygones, as I do? Of course I haven’t been exactly what you might call attentive, but I’m going to begin fresh, as I said, and you needn’t think I’m going to let you go. My uncle will get me a post in Lower Khemistan, in a nice lively station, with plenty going on; and I’ll cut the Mirza, and you shall have a jolly big bungalow, and horses and carriages, and get your dresses out from home. When shall we be married?” Penelope’s eyes gathered a look almost of terror as she listened in mingled perplexity and alarm. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said, forcing her lips to utter the words. “Then you must want to marry some one else. Who is it?”