so once, Maurice--tell me so again.
You do love me, don't you?"

What was a man to do? Maurice moved uneasily under her embrace as though
he would withdraw her arms from about his neck.

"Of course," he said, nervously; "of course, I am fond of you, and all
that, but we can't marry upon less than nothing. You must know that as
well as I do."

"No; but we can wait."

"What are we to wait for?" he said, irritably.

"Oh, a hundred things might happen--your brother might die."

"God forbid!" he said, pushing her from him, in earnest this time.

"Well, we will hope not that, perhaps; but grandpapa can't live for ever,
and he ought to leave me all his money, and then we should be rich."

"It is horrible waiting for dead people's shoes," said Maurice, with a
little shudder; "besides, Mr. Harlowe is just as likely as not to leave
his money to a hospital, or to the British Museum, or the National
Gallery--you could not count upon anything."

"We could at all events wait and see."

"And be engaged all that time on the off-chance?" he said, drearily;
"that is a miserable prospect."

"Then you do wish to get rid of me!" she said, looking at him
suspiciously; "you have seen some other woman."

"Pooh! what a little fool you are!" He jumped up angrily from his chair,
leaving her there upon the hearthrug. A woman makes a false move when she
speaks of "another woman" to the man whose affection for her is on the
wane. In the present instance the accusation was utterly without
foundation. Many as were his self-reproaches on her account, that one had
never been amongst them. If he did not love her, neither had he the
slightest fancy for any other woman. Her remark irritated him beyond
measure; it seemed to annul and wipe out the score of his own
shortcomings towards her, and to make himself, not her, the injured one.

"Women are the most irrational, the most unjust, the most thoroughly
pig-headed set of creatures on the face of the earth!" he burst forth,
angrily.

She saw her mistake by this time. She was no fool; she was quick
enough--sharp as a needle--where her love did not, as love invariably
does, warp and blind her judgment.

"I am sorry, Maurice," she said, humbly. "I did not mean to doubt you, of
course. Have you not said you love me? Sit down again, please."

He sat down only half appeased, looking glum and sulky. She felt that
some concession on her part was necessary. She took his hand and stroked
it softly.