"Not Major Carew again? I can't understand it, Cecil. You know I inquired about him, you told me to ask if I had a chance, and his father _is_ rich. He might fly into a rage if he were asked for money, but he would give it in the end. Major Carew might have a bad half-hour, but what is that compared with borrowing from you! And from a man's point of view it's so little, such very small sums!" She caught a change of expression on the other's face, and leapt at its meaning. "Cecil! You have been giving more! Your savings!" "And if I have, Claire Gifford, what business is it of yours? What was I saving for? To provide for my old age, wasn't it? and now that the need has gone, why shouldn't I lend it, if I chose? Frank happens to be hard up for a few months, and besides, there's a reason! ... We are getting tired of waiting... You must never, never breathe a word to a soul, but he wants me ... he thinks it might be better..." Claire stared with wide eyes, Cecil frowned, and finished the sentence in reckless tones-- "We shall probably get married this autumn, and tell his father afterwards." "Oh, Cecil, no! Don't do it! It's madness. It's folly. He ought not to ask you. It will make things fifty times more difficult." "It would make things _sure_!" Mary Rhodes said. The words were such an unconscious revelation of her inner attitude towards her lover, that Claire was smitten with a very passion of pity. She stretched out her hand, and cried ardently. "Cecil, I am thinking of your happiness: I long for you to be sure, but a private marriage is an insult to a girl. It puts her into a wrong position, and no man has the right to suggest it. Where is your pride?" "Oh, my dear," interrupted Cecil wearily, "I'm past worrying about pride. I'm thirty-three, and look older, and feel sixty at the least. I'm tired out in body and soul. I'm sick of this empty life. I want a home. I want rest. I want some one to care for me, and take an interest in what I do. Frank isn't perfect, I don't pretend that he is. I wish to goodness he _would_ own up, and face the racket once for all, but it's no use, he won't! Between ourselves I believe he thinks the old man won't live much longer, and there will be no need to worry him at all. Any way there it is, he won't tell at present, however much I may beg, but he will marry me; he wants to be married in September, and that proves that he _does_ care! He is looking out for a flat, and picking up furniture. _We_ are picking up furniture," Cecil corrected herself hastily. "I go in and ask the prices, and he sends his servants the next week to do the bargaining. And there will be my clothes, too... I'll pay you back in time, Claire, with ten per cent, interest into the bargain, and perhaps when I'm a rich woman the time may come when you will be glad to borrow from me!"