“Tire of you!” he exclaimed, in a shaken voice. “Of _you!_” And all at once he drew her round so that the light of the nearest lamp could fall on her face. “Look here!” he whispered, sharply; “Dolly, I swear to you, that if there lives a man on earth base and heartless enough to rob me of you, I will kill him as sure as I breathe the breath of life!” She had seen him impassioned enough often before, but she had never seen him in as wild a mood as he was when he uttered these words. She was so frightened that she broke into a little cry, and put her hand up to his lips. “Griffith!” she said, “Grif!--dear old fellow. You don't know what you are saying. Oh! don't--don't!” Her horror brought him to his senses again; but he had terrified her so that she was trembling all over, and clung to him nervously when he tried to console her. “It is n't like _you_ to speak in such a way,” she faltered, in the midst of her tears. “Oh, how dreadfully wrong things must be getting, to make you so cruel!” It took so long a time to reassure and restore her to her calmness, that he repented his rashness a dozen times. But he managed to comfort her at length, though to the last she was tearful and dejected, and her voice was broken with soft, sorrowful little catchings of the breath. “Don't let us talk about Ralph Gowan,” she pleaded, when he had persuaded her to walk on with him again. “Let us talk about ourselves,--we are always safe when we talk about ourselves,” with an innocent, mournful smile. And so they talked about themselves. He would have talked of anything on earth to please her then. Talking of themselves, of course, implied talking nonsense,--affectionate, sympathetic nonsense, but still nonsense; and so, for a while, they strolled on together, and were as tenderly foolish and disconnected as two people could possibly be. But, in spite of her resolution to avoid the subject, Dolly could not help drifting back to Ralph Gowan. “Griffith,” she said, plaintively, “you are very jealous of him.” “I know that,” he answered. “But don't you _know_,” in desperate appeal, “that there is n't the slightest need for you to be jealous of anybody?” “I know,” he returned, dejectedly, “that I am a very wretched fellow sometimes.” “Oh, dear!” sighed Dolly. “I know,” he went on, “that seven years is a long probation, and that the prospect of another seven, or another two, for the matter of that, would drive me mad. I know I am growing envious and distrustful; I know that there are times when I hate that fellow so savagely that I am ashamed of myself. Dolly, what has he ever done that he should saunter on the sunny side, clad in purple and fine linen all his life? The money he throws away in a year would furnish the house at Putney.” “Oh, dear!” burst forth Dolly. “You _are_ going wrong. It is all because I am not there to take care of you, too. Those are not the sentiments of Vagabondia, Grif.” “No,” dryly; “they are of the earth, earthy.”