"That depends on my own whim," he replied, watching her attentively. "I shall certainly be absent from England for a year, perhaps longer. But, Lucy,--you were such a little pet of mine in your childhood that I cannot help taking an interest in you now you are grown up. That is, I think, quite natural. And I should like to feel that you have some good and safe idea of your own happiness in life before I leave you." She stared,--her face fell. "I have no ideas at all," she answered after a pause, the corners of her red mouth drooping in petulant, spoilt-child fashion, "and if you go away I shall have no pleasures either!" He smiled. "I'm sorry you take it that way," he said. "But I'm nearing the end of my tether, Lucy, and increasing age makes me restless. I want change of scene--and change of surroundings. I am thoroughly tired of my present condition." "Tired?" and her eyes expressed whole volumes of amazement. "Not really? _You_--tired of your present condition? With all your money?" "With all my money!" he answered drily, "Money is not the elixir of happiness, Lucy, though many people seem to think it is. But I prefer not to talk about myself. Let me speak of you. What do you propose to do with your life? You will marry, of course?" "I--I suppose so," she faltered. "Is there any one you specially favour?--any young fellow who loves you, or whom you are inclined to love--and who wants a start in the world? If there is, send him to me, and, if he has anything in him, I'll make myself answerable for his prosperity." She looked up with a cold, bright steadfastness. "There is no one," she said. "Dear Mr. Helmsley, you are very good, but I assure you I have never fallen in love in my life. As I told you before supper, I don't believe in that kind of nonsense. And I--I want nothing. Of course I know my father and mother are poor, and that they have kept up a sort of position which ranks them among the 'shabby genteel,'--and I suppose if I don't marry quickly I shall have to do something for a living----" She broke off, embarrassed by the keenness of the gaze he fixed upon her. "Many good, many beautiful, many delicate women 'do something,' as you put it, for a living," he said slowly. "But the fight is always fierce, and the end is sometimes bitter. It is better for a woman that she should be safeguarded by a husband's care and tenderness than that she should attempt to face the world alone." A flashing smile dimpled the corners of her mouth. "Why, yes, I quite agree with you," she retorted playfully. "But if no husband come forward, then it cannot be helped!" He rose, and, pushing away his chair, walked up and down in silence. She watched him with a sense of growing irritability, and her heart beat with uncomfortable quickness. Why did he seem to hesitate so long? Presently he stopped in his slow movement to and fro, and stood looking down upon her with a fixed intensity which vaguely troubled her.