"He doesn't think so. When I apologise I am to be taken into favour again. So, if he keeps to that, it is likely to be many years before we interchange remarks." "What an egregious ass he is," Steele commented. "Never mind that now. We don't want to discuss him. I came to-night to beg a favour. Will you write to me sometimes? ... and may I write? I don't want to lose touch altogether." "I can't promise that," she said, and fingered a rosebud below her window, snapping its stem in nervous preoccupation. "All our letters go into a box at the post office and are sorted before we receive them. They would not allow me to correspond with you." "Could we not arrange a little deception," he suggested, "by means of which you could collect your own letters from the post office?" But this idea did not commend itself to Prudence. She might be a rebel, but she was honest, as courageous people usually are; anything in the nature of deceit repelled her. "I should not care to do that," she said. Her answer pleased Steele, although it defeated his purpose. He had hoped to follow up this pleasant friendship begun under such unusual and difficult conditions. It was the quality of conspiracy and quick intimacy which made the acquaintance so extraordinarily attractive to him. He was more than half in love with her already; and it galled him to reflect that with his present uncertain prospects he was no match for this daughter of a wealthy man. He could not have afforded to marry had other conditions proved favourable, which they did not: Mr Graynor would scarcely have welcomed a son-in-law with a salary of under two hundred a year. "I am afraid that settles it," he said in tones compounded of a mixture of emotions. "I wonder if ever I'll have the good luck to meet you again?" This remark pulled Prudence up sharply. She had never considered the question of his going out of her life; the suggestion thus forced on her unwilling attention hurt. Abruptly the knowledge came to her that she did not wish to lose his friendship. She had not considered the matter of his going away seriously: she had taken it for granted that the business that had brought him to Wortheton would bring him again; no doubt had crossed her mind as to a further meeting--now that the doubt was implanted a vague distress seized her, bringing with it a sense of desolation. She realised that when he was gone she would miss him, would feel doubly lonely by comparison with this bright break in the monotony of her life. "You'll come again?" she said quickly. "It's possible," he answered, "but not in the least likely. It was just a chance that brought me this time. The firm sends a more important man as a rule. If I come again you will soon know of it. I shall make my first appearance under your window. In the meanwhile you will quite possibly have forgotten my existence." "Amid the distractions of Wortheton!" Prudence retorted. "That's very probable, isn't it?"