ing away.

"Do _you_ happen to be in love?" he said, restraining himself.

She looked at him very kindly.

"I will tell you that, when you come back--_if_ you come back," she
promised.

"_If_ I come back!" he derided. Then, with eagerness, "You will write
to me? I may write to you?" he stipulated.

"Oh, no--by no means. There must be no sort of communication between
us. You must give yourself every chance to forget me--and to think of
your cousin."

"I won't go," said Anthony.

He planted himself in a chair, facing her, and assumed the air of a
fixture.

But Susanna rose.

"Good-bye, then," she said, and held out her hand.

"What do you mean?" said he.

But he took her hand, and kept it.

"All is over between us--if you won't go."

But she left her hand in his.

"You _will_ write to me?"

He caressed the warm soft fingers.

"No."

"But I _may_ write to you?"

He kissed the fragrant fingers.

At last, slowly, gently, she drew her hand away.

"Oh, if it will give you any satisfaction to write to me, I suppose you
may," she conceded. "But remember--you must n't expect your letters to
be answered."

She went back to her place in the corner of the sofa.

He left his chair, and stood over her again.

"I love you," he said.

She smiled and played with the lace of her cushion.

"So you remarked before," she said.

"I love you," said he, with fervour.

"By the bye," she said, "I forgot to mention that you are to take Mr.
Willes with you."

"Oh--?" puzzled Anthony. "Willes? Why?"

"For several reasons," said Susanna. "But will one suffice?"

"What's the one?"

She looked up at him, and laughed.

"Because I wish it."

Anthony laughed too.

"You are conscious of your power," he said.

"Yes," she admitted. "So you will take Mr. Willes?"

"You have said you wished it."

And then, for a while, neither spoke, but I fancy their eyes carried on
the conversation.

XIX

It was nearly time to dress for dinner when Anthony returned to Craford
Old Manor.

Adrian, his collar loosened, his hair towzled, his head cocked
critically to one side, was in his business-room, seated at his piano,
playing over and over again a single phrase, and now and then making a
little alteration in it, which he would hurriedly jot down in a
manuscript music-book, laid open on a table at his elbow.

"Are n't you going for a holiday this summer?" Anthony asked, with
languor, lounging in.

"