“O Ernest, Ernest, do be reasonable, there’s a dear; what is the good of getting angry and making me wretched? Come and sit down here, dear, and tell me, am _I_ not worth a little patience? There is not the slightest possibility, so far as I can see, of our getting married at present; so the question is, if it is of any use to trumpet out an engagement that will only make us the object of a great deal of gossip, and which, perhaps, your uncle would not like?” “O, by Jove!” he said, “that reminds me;” and sitting down beside her again, he told her the story of the interview with his uncle. She listened in silence. “This is all very bad,” she said, when he had finished. “Yes, it is bad enough; but what is to be done?” “There is nothing to be done at present.” “Shall I make a clean breast of it to him?” “No, no, not now; it will only make matters worse. We must wait, dear. You must go abroad for a couple of months, as you had arranged, and then when you come back we must see what can be arranged.” “But, my dearest, I cannot bear to leave you; it makes my heart ache to think of it.” “Dear, I know that it is hard; but it must be done. You could not stop here now very well without speaking about our—our engagement, and to do that would only be to bring your uncle’s anger on you. No, you had better go away, Ernest, and meanwhile I will try to get into Mr. Cardus’s good graces, and, if I fail, then when you come back we must agree upon some plan. Perhaps by that time you will take your uncle’s view of the matter and want to marry Dorothy. She would make you a better wife than I shall, Ernest, my dear.” “Eva, how can you say such things! it is not kind of you!” “O, why not? It is true. O yes, I know that I am better-looking, and that is what you men always think of; but she has more brains, more fixity of mind, and, perhaps, for all I know, more heart than I have, though, for the matter of that, I feel as if I was all heart just now. Really, Ernest, you had better transfer your allegiance. Give me up, and forget me, dear; it will save you much trouble. I know that there is trouble coming; it is in the air. Better marry Dorothy, and leave me to fight my sorrow out alone. I will release you, Ernest;” and she began to cry at the bare idea. “I shall wait to give you up until you have given me up,” said Ernest, when he had found means to stop her tears; “and as for forgetting you, I can never do that. Please, dear, don’t talk so any more; it pains me.” “Very well, Ernest; then let us vow eternal fidelity instead; but, my dear, I _know_ that I shall bring you trouble.” “It is the price that men have always paid for the smiles of women like you,” he answered. “Trouble may come—so be it, let it come; at any rate, I have the consciousness of your love. When I have lost that, then, and then only, shall I think that I have bought you too dear.” In the course of his after life these words often came back to Ernest’s mind. CHAPTER XIV. GOOD-BYE