Rees looked rather pleased. Grave, almost solemn as her manner was, there was a tell-tale shyness in her glance, a marked maidenly reserve about her actions, which told the already blasé young man that her interest in him was as strong as ever. “I can guess who the offers were from,” said he. “Godwin and Hervey.” “No,” she said simply, “I didn’t count them.” “Indeed, that’s flattering to us poor Pennants, to hear we don’t count.” Deborah said nothing to this. “And in all this crowd of admirers, I suppose you never find time for a thought of me? Being a Pennant, I suppose I don’t count either.” “I think of you a great deal,” said Deborah quietly. “And what is it you think of me? That you never want to see me again?” he asked, leaning coaxingly against her knee. “I think,” she said sorrowfully, “we never shall see the old Rees again.” “Did you care for the old Rees then?” asked the young man very softly, with a tender inflection in his voice which was altogether new to her, as he looked up into her face with pleading, passionate eyes. The unsophisticated girl betrayed her secret altogether in a moment, as her body began to tremble, her cheeks to flush, and her eyes to fill. Rees at once seized his advantage. Crawling up to her side on his knees, he put his arm round her waist and leaned his head against her shoulder. “Deb, Deb, you care for me still, don’t you, whether I’m good or bad, whether I’m changed or not? If you knew that I wanted you, you’d come to me, wouldn’t you, whatever they said? And you don’t care for Godwin’s frigid love-making, or for Hervey’s virtuous homilies, but you love your poor Rees through everything, don’t you, don’t you, Deb?” “Rees, you know that I love you,” whispered the girl passionately. “And if I asked you to come up and live near me, you would, wouldn’t you, Deb? If you knew that I was ill, and wanted your care and your consolation? You wouldn’t leave me to the care of that cock-eyed old lady who let you in, would you?” “Oh, Rees, no! of course we wouldn’t. But if you are ill, why don’t you come home and be nursed? We live comfortably now. I’m housekeeper, and sometimes cook as well. And, oh! we should be so pleased and proud to take you home again!” Rees listened to this speech rather impatiently. “My dear child,” he said, “I don’t feel inclined at present to settle down to the old lady’s tea and toast and prayer meetings. One may end in that, but it’s a little too early as yet. The fact is,” he went on hurriedly, as he saw her face change, “that I couldn’t leave town just now, however much I wished it. A man has his living to get, a career to make, you know.” “And you want us to come up and live in London?”