“That is the name the gentleman gave,” answered the footman, who was new to the place. “That is Mr. Cyril Cossart. You must remember the difference in future,” said May, trying to control the irritation she felt. “I don’t believe I’d have gone in for him,” she muttered to herself. “He had no business to ask for me with mother out. But he has seen me now, so I suppose I must go for a little while. I hope he won’t stay long. I’ve such lots of things I want to do.” Cyril came down the steps to meet her, too much self-engrossed to observe the coolness of her greeting. “Don’t let us go in this lovely day, Miss Lawrence. These sweet spring days are too precious to lose! May I not join you in your ramble?” “I was not rambling, I was gardening,” answered May, but she could not exactly refuse his request, though she did not altogether approve the suggestion. She thought he was taking too much the airs of an intimate friend, and of late he had not been encouraged to intimacy at the Manor. “I am sorry my mother is not at home,” she said, as they walked down the wide nut avenue, where she had so often paced with North, asking eager questions about his work, and forgetting everything in her interest at his replies. “Well, it is you that I came especially to see, May,” he answered; and as she started at the sound of her name spoken thus for the first time by him, and flashed an indignant glance at him, Cyril plunged into the carefully-prepared speech he had made, faltering a little at first, but getting the thread quickly, and then going rapidly forward with gathering courage and assurance. For the first few minutes May was simply too much astonished to speak a single word, and then a wave of hot indignation surged over her, and she was afraid to speak lest she should say something she might regret afterwards. After all, when a man proposed to a girl, he was supposed to be paying her the highest honour in his power to offer. She sought to remember this, and to curb her angry impulses; and during this time Cyril had got a long way in his speech, so that there could be no possible doubt as to his meaning. “Oh, please stop! Please do not say any more!” cried May at length, when she felt that she could master her emotions and speak quietly. “What you want is quite out of the question! Please say no more. We had better say good-bye”—and she stopped, facing him, and held out her hand. Cyril stood dumfoundered. He simply could not believe his ears. This was probably some girlish wile to lead him on to more impassioned declarations. He was quite ready for that, and, taking her hand in his, recommenced his protestations, but May pulled it from him, and her eyes flashed. “Mr. Cossart, please to understand me, once and for all. What you wish is quite impossible!” “Impossible that you should be my wife, May?” “Quite impossible, and please not to call me that again! You have no right to do so.”