It suddenly occurred to her that the proper moment had come for withdrawing her hands from Mr. Houseman’s firm grasp. Indeed, she thought the proper moment might already have passed, and a warm color came into her cheeks. The young man flushed a little himself. “I didn’t mean to call you that,” he said; “but Caroline used to write a lot about you, and she always called you ‘Lexy,’ so I got into the way of thinking of you—like that.” “I don’t mind,” Lexy conceded. There was a moment’s silence. “Charles is my name,” he observed. Another silence. “Queer, isn’t it?” he said seriously. “Here we’ve only seen each other once, and yet somehow it seems to me as if I’d known you for years!” “Well, the circumstances are rather unusual,” said Lexy. “You’re right! But look here—we’ve got to talk about all this. Where were you going?” “Back to Mrs. Royce’s.” “Let’s go!” he said cheerfully, and picked up the bag as if it were nothing at all. “But where were _you_ going?” asked Lexy. “To find you. You see, we ran into some awfully bad weather, and the engines broke down, and we came back for repairs; so I got your letters. I explained to the old man that I’d have to have leave, for some very important business, and off I came to Wyngate. Your Mrs. Royce told me you’d gone out to the Queltons’. I didn’t like that. Why did you go there, after what had happened?” “I’ll tell you all about that later,” said Lexy; “but now you’ve got to tell me things. How did you ever meet Caroline? How in the world did she manage to write to you?” “Well, you see, I met her about a year ago, on board the Ormond. She and her parents were coming back from France, and I was third officer, you know. Her mother and father were seasick most of the time, so we had a chance to—to talk to each other; and, you see—” “Yes, I see!” said Lexy gently. “One of the servants—a girl called Annie—used to post Caroline’s letters for her, and I used to write to her in care of Annie’s mother. We never had a chance to meet again, after that trip. I wanted to come to the house and see her people, but she said it wasn’t any use; and from what I saw of them on the Ormond I dare say she was right. I wouldn’t have suited them. I haven’t any money, you know—nothing but my pay; but it was enough for us to live on. Other fellows manage!” He was silent for a moment. “After all,” he said, “I’m not a beggar. I can hold my own pretty well in the world, and I could look after a wife.” “I know it!” cried Lexy, with vehemence. She felt curiously touched by his words, and quite indignant against the Enderbys and any one else who did not appreciate him. “I asked Caroline to marry me,” he went on. “I told her I couldn’t give her much, but we could have had a jolly sort of life. Look here! Are you crying?” “A little bit,” Lexy admitted; “but don’t pay any attention to it. Go on!”