She had never spoken, she had never looked, as she spoke and looked now. Horace was afraid to believe in his own good fortune. “Oh, Grace!” he exclaimed, “you are not trifling with me?” “What makes you think I am trifling with you?” Horace was innocent enough to answer her seriously. “You would not even let me speak of our marriage just now,” he said. “Never mind what I did just now,” she retorted, petulantly. “They say women are changeable. It is one of the defects of the sex.” “Heaven be praised for the defects of the sex!” cried Horace, with devout sincerity. “Do you really leave me to decide?” “If you insist on it.” Horace considered for a moment--the subject being the law of marriage. “We may be married by license in a fortnight,” he said. “I fix this day fortnight.” She held up her hands in protest. “Why not? My lawyer is ready. There are no preparations to make. You said when you accepted me that it was to be a private marriage.” Mercy was obliged to own that she had certainly said that. “We might be married at once--if the law would only let us. This day fortnight! Say--Yes!” He drew her closer to him. There was a pause. The mask of coquetry--badly worn from the first--dropped from her. Her sad gray eyes rested compassionately on his eager face. “Don’t look so serious!” he said. “Only one little word, Grace! Only Yes.” She sighed, and said it. He kissed her passionately. It was only by a resolute effort that she released herself. “Leave me!” she said, faintly. “Pray leave me by myself!” She was in earnest--strangely in earnest. She was trembling from head to foot. Horace rose to leave her. “I will find Lady Janet,” he said; “I long to show the dear old lady that I have recovered my spirits, and to tell her why.” He turned round at the library door. “You won’t go away? You will let me see you again when you are more composed?” “I will wait here,” said Mercy. Satisfied with that reply, he left the room.