“And despise me? Well, you must. I told you I was going to be candid, and perhaps it is as well—as well, I mean, that you should know me,” she replied, apparently unmoved. “I am content,” he answered, catching her spirit. “And so am I,” she said. “To no one else in the world would I have said as much as I have said to you. To no other man would I say, ‘Win a living, and I will be yours!’ But I say it to you. Do as much as that for me and I will marry you, Stephen. If you cannot, I cannot.” “You are very prosaic,” he replied, lapsing into bitterness again. “Oh, if you are not content” she retorted. He did not let her finish the sentence. “You will marry me on the day I obtain a living?” he asked. “I will,” she answered bravely. She was standing up now, and he too—standing where the rector had stood an hour before. She let him pass his arm round her waist, but when he would have drawn her closer to him, and bent his head to kiss her, she hung back. “No,” she said, blushing hotly, “I think”—with a shy laugh—“that you are making too certain, sir.” “Do you wish me _not_ to succeed?” he replied, looking down at her; and it must be confessed the lover’s _rôle_ became him better than nine-tenths of those who knew his dark, rugged face would have believed. She shook her head, smiling. “Then if you wish me success,” he replied, “you must send me out with some guerdon of your favor.” And this time she did not resist. He drew her to him and kissed her thrice. Then she escaped from him and took refuge on the other side of the fireplace. “You must not do that again,” she said, biting her lip and trying to look at him reproachfully. “At any rate, you have had your guerdon now. When you come back a victor I will crown you. But until then we are friends only. You understand, sir?” And, though he demurred, he presently said he understood. CHAPTER XIV. THE LETTERS IN THE CUPBOARD. When Stephen Clode left the Town House after his interview with Laura, he was in a state of exaltation—lifted completely out of his ordinary cool and calculating self by what had happened. It was raining, but he had gone some distance before he remarked it, and even then he did not at once put up his umbrella, but strode along through the darkness, his thoughts in a whirl of triumph and excitement. The crisis had come suddenly, but he had not been found unequal to it. He had gone in through the gates despondent, and come out in joy. He had pitted himself against his rival, and had had the best of it. He had wooed, and, almost in spite of his mistress, had won! He did not for the first few moments consider whether his altercation with the rector was likely to have unpleasant consequences, nor did he trouble himself about the manner in which he was to do Laura’s bidding. Such considerations would come later—with the reaction. For the present they did not occur to him. It was enough that Laura might be his—that she never could be the rector’s.