ant subject for the present--and yet, with a curious
inconsistency, he made another inquiry relating to the subject in the
same breath.

"Do you think she is likely to be in correspondence with your father, or
your stepmother, while she is out of England?" he asked.

"I should doubt her writing to my father," I said. "But she might
correspond with Mrs. Finch."

He considered a little--and then turned the talk to the topic of our
residence at Ramsgate next.

"How long do you stay here?" he inquired.

"It depends on Herr Grosse," I answered. "I will ask him when he comes
next."

He turned away to the window--suddenly, as if he was a little put out.

"Are you tired of Ramsgate already?" I asked.

He came back to me, and took my hand--my cold insensible hand that won't
feel his touch as it ought!

"Let me be your husband, Lucilla," he whispered; "and I will live at
Ramsgate if you like--for your sake."

Although there was everything to please me in those words, there was
something that startled me--I cannot describe it--in his look and manner
when he said them. I made no answer at the moment. He went on.

"Why should we not be married at once?" he asked. "We are both of age. We
have only ourselves to think of."

[Note.--Alter his words as follows: "Why should we not be married before
Madame Pratolungo can hear of my arrival at Ramsgate?"--and you will
rightly interpret his motives. The situation is now fast reaching its
climax of peril. Nugent's one chance is to persuade Lucilla to marry him
before any discoveries can reach my ears, and before Grosse considers her
sufficiently recovered to leave Ramsgate.--P.]

"You forget," I answered, more surprised than ever; "we have my father to
think of. It was always arranged that he was to marry us at Dimchurch."

Oscar smiled--not at all the charming smile I used to imagine, when I was
blind!

"We shall wait a long time, I am afraid," he said, "if we wait until your
father marries us."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"When we enter on the painful subject of Madame Pratolungo," he replied,
"I will tell you. In the meantime, do you think Mr. Finch will answer
your letter?"

"I hope so."

"Do you think he will answer my postscript?"

"I am sure he will!"

The same unpleasant smile showed itself again in his face. He abruptly
dropped the conversation, and went to play _piquet_ with my aunt.

All this happened yesterday evening. I went to bed, sadly dissatisf