He laughed. “You strange little lady?” he said, his irritation with me melting. And when he laughs you can see how even his teeth are, but the two side ones are sharp and pointed like a wolf’s. “Perhaps after all you had better have married me!” “No, that would clip my wings,” I said frankly, looking at him straight in the face. “Mr. Barton tells me you propose leaving here on Saturday. I beg you will not do so--please consider it your home for so long as you wish--until you can make some arrangements for yourself. You look so very young to be going about the world alone!” He bent down and gazed at me closer--there was an odd tone in his voice. “I am twenty, and I have been often snubbed,” I said, calmly; “that prepares one for a good deal. I shall enjoy doing what I please.” “And what are you going to please?” “I shall go to Claridge’s until I can look about me.” He moved uneasily. “But have you no relations? No one who will take care of you?” “I believe none. My mother was nobody particular you know--a Miss Tonkins by name.” “But your father?” He sat down now on the sofa beside me; there was a puzzled, amused look in his face--perhaps I was amazing him. “Papa? Oh! Papa was the last of his family--they were decent people, but there are no more of them.” He pushed one of the cushions aside. “It is an impossible position for a girl--completely alone. I cannot allow it. I feel responsible for you. After all, it would do very well if you married me--I am not particularly domestic by nature, and should be very little at home--so you could live here, and have a certain position, and I would come back now and then to see you were getting on all right.” One could not say if he were mocking, or no. “It is too good of you,” I said, without any irony, “but I like freedom, and when you were at home it might be such a bore----” He leant back, and laughed merrily. “You are candid, at any rate!” he said. Mr. Barton came into the room at that moment, full of apologies for being late. Immediately after, with the usual ceremony, the butler entered and pompously announced, “Dinner is served, sir.” How quickly they recognize the new master! Mr. Carruthers gave me his arm, and we walked slowly down the picture gallery to the banqueting hall, and there sat down at the small round table in the middle, that always looks like an island in a lake. I talked nicely at dinner. I was dignified and grave, and quite frank. Mr. Carruthers was not bored. The _chef_ had outdone himself, hoping to be kept on. I never felt so excited in my life. I was apparently asleep under a big lamp, after dinner in the library--a book of silly poetry in my lap--when the door opened and he--Mr. Carruthers--came in alone, and walked up the room. I did not open my eyes. He looked for just a minute--how accurate I am! Then he said, “You are very pretty when asleep!” His voice was not caressing, or complimentary, merely as if the fact had forced this utterance.