I was afraid that she was going to ask me questions which I could not well have answered, so I rose to my feet and turned away. Yet there was something soothing in her evident sympathy. She walked to the door with me. “When shall you be ready to go to London with me?” she asked, upon the threshold. “Any time,” I answered, promptly. “There is nothing I desire so much as to leave here.” “I will write to have my little place put in order to-day,” she said. “It will be ready for us in a week, I dare say. I think that I too shall be glad to leave here.” I walked quietly home through the shadowy plantation and across the little stretch of common. On my way upstairs to my room Mary, our little housemaid, interrupted me. “There is a young lady in the drawing room waiting to see you, miss,” she announced; “she came directly after you went.” I retraced my steps slowly. Of course I knew who it was. I opened the door, and found her sitting close to the fire. She rose at once to her feet, and looked at me a little defiantly. I greeted her as pleasantly as I could, but she was evidently in a bad humor. There was an awkward silence for a moment or two. I waited for her to explain her mission. “I saw you with Mr. Deville the other day,” she remarked at last. I nodded. “It is quite true. I did all that I could to avoid him. That was what I promised, you know.” “Is that the first time you have seen him since we made our arrangement?” she asked. “The first time,” I answered. “You have not been with him this afternoon?” she asked, suspiciously. “Certainly not,” I assured her. “I have only been down to see Mrs. Fortress for a few minutes.” “He was not there?” “No.” She sighed and looked away from me into the fire, and when she spoke her voice was thick with rising sobs. “He does not care for me. I cannot make him! My money does not seem to make any difference. He is too fierce and independent. I don’t think that I shall ever be able to make him care.” I looked steadily down upon the carpet, and set my teeth firmly. It was ridiculous that my heart should be beating so fiercely. “I’m sorry for you,” I said, softly. She fixed her black eyes upon me. “You are sorry for me,” she repeated. “Very good, you do not care for him yourself. But listen! I am afraid, I fear that he cares for you.” “You do not know that,” I faltered. “You----” “Bah!” she interrupted, scornfully. “I know. But you--there is some one else. That is our secret. Never mind, you do not care for him at any rate. You shall help me then. What do you say?” “How can I help you?” I repeated. “Have I not already done all that I can by refusing to see him? What more can I do?”