“You must give me your address,” said Major Lumley, turning to Letty, “and we will write to one another.” As he spoke, he produced a notebook. “I hope you will never repent of your answer; but I believe in my heart, that some day you will be sorry for yourself--yes, and for me. One word more: Cara will be a beauty--in a year or two--and rule you, and be in that respect, her father’s daughter. You are always a slave to someone; first it was your aunt, then Blagdon, now the girl--and _I_ would give you freedom.” For the moment Letty was unable to speak or control her trembling lips. The boat was alongside; already the passengers were crowding ashore and streaming towards the station. As the luggage was being carried away, she found her voice at last, and faltered: “No doubt, once you are gone I’ll wish I had said yes, and if I said yes, I would be wishing I’d said no. You must think me obstinate, heartless, and weak; but I have never cared for anyone as much as for you--and never will. I’ve thought of you every day, during these long, lonely years--but I must put duty first.” “That is to say, Cara,” he broke in angrily, “apparently you have no personality, no identity of your own. Well, Letty, let us hope that Cara will reward you. Here we are! I see the fellow has got me an empty carriage,” and he halted. “If ever you are in trouble--bad trouble--cable for me, and I’ll come back, and see you through. Now good-bye.” He wrung her hand, and without another glance climbed into the compartment. As the heavy St. Gothard express dragged itself out of the station, he never looked out of the window or waved a signal to the stricken figure on the platform. Lancelot had gone, he had departed in disappointment, and displeasure. Meanwhile Cara (who had been occupied at a fruit stall, and subsequently sought a restaurant, there to indulge Fritz and herself with coffee and cakes) appeared to have totally forgotten her parent. On the return journey, Letty descended into the empty fore cabin--the emotion of the recent scene was still thrilling all her pulses--and there she wept unobserved, and unrestrained, the whole way back to their own particular landing-stage,--mercilessly tortured by the clamouring questions, had she done right? had she done wrong? The problem was unsolved, when the steamer touched at Mitzau; it remained unanswered, for years. CHAPTER XXVIII