He stooped, kissed her, and sighed. 'You do not want me to go away from you?' she asked slyly, tenderly. 'My God!' he whispered, 'take all other earthly things from me if You will, but leave me this!' 'I do not want to go away from you. You do not want me to go away. Why are you uneasy? What caused you anxiety last night?' 'Wait until we are out of this. Let us go at once.' 'Without telling them?' She nodded towards where Nevill and Miss Osborne stood. 'Yes.' 'That will be our first little romance.' 'Run off now. Don't be long.' 'What!' she pouted. 'You are sending me away, although you said you did not want me to go.' He glanced in the direction of the other group, and then stooped and kissed her again. She broke from him and glided out of the room, giving him a smile of tender sauciness as she went. CHAPTER IV. THE BETROTHAL. When at last they reached the street he said,-- 'I could not speak to you in a room. A room is quiet too and lonely now. I feel lonely in my mind, and I like to see thousands of people round me. It diminishes my own importance in my own eyes, and I want to put myself wholly out of sight if I can.' The hazel-grey eyes were lifted to his in curiosity and trouble. What was it he could not say to her in a room and could in a crowded street? Something unpleasant. What could it be? His eyes were fixed before him. He did not look at her. She simply said, 'Yes,' softly. 'On a country road, or in a wood I could say to you what I have in my mind, or in our own quiet house at home. But in that boarding-house I could not, Marie. On a country road, or among trees, or in our home there would be a solemn background of nature or of associations, and these would take my mind off, Marie, your beauty and my great love of you. I should there understand you and I were then taking only a part in a vast concert in which thousands sang. I should be able to keep my mind off the overwhelming importance to me of your personality, by having forced upon me greater facts than our association. These busy streets act on me like the wood or open fields or the house to which my mother came as bride, in which she mourned as widow.' He was talking more to himself than to her. He was accounting to himself rather than explaining to her why he preferred the streets to the house. She was looking up timidly at him. This was to her unintelligible. She knew he had some reason for wishing to speak to her out of doors. That was all she wanted to know. That was quite enough for her. What could this great long introduction mean? What was he going to say? He had kissed her, and looked at her very affectionately that morning, but his manner was strange. He went on,-- 'But in that house we have left all is vulgar and commonplace but your presence, and when we are alone I can think of nothing but your great beauty and my great love for you.'