for the family. Somebody must be civil to Lady Lundie--and I'm the
sacrifice."

She took him up at his last word. "Don't make the sacrifice," she said.
"Apologize to Lady Lundie, and say you are obliged to go back."

"Why?"

"Because we must both leave this place to-day."

There was a double objection to that. If he left Lady Lundie's, he would
fail to establish a future pecuniary claim on his brother's indulgence.
And if he left with Anne, the eyes of the world would see them, and the
whispers of the world might come to his father's ears.

"If we go away together," he said, "good-by to my prospects, and yours
too."

"I don't mean that we shall leave together," she explained. "We will
leave separately--and I will go first."

"There will be a hue and cry after you, when you are missed."

"There will be a dance when the croquet is over. I don't dance--and I
shall not be missed. There will be time, and opportunity to get to
my own room. I shall leave a letter there for Lady Lundie, and a
letter"--her voice trembled for a moment--"and a letter for Blanche.
Don't interrupt me! I have thought of this, as I have thought of every
thing else. The confession I shall make will be the truth in a few
hours, if it's not the truth now. My letters will say I am privately
married, and called away unexpectedly to join my husband. There will be
a scandal in the house, I know. But there will be no excuse for sending
after me, when I am under my husband's protection. So far as you are
personally concerned there are no discoveries to fear--and nothing which
it is not perfectly safe and perfectly easy to do. Wait here an hour
after I have gone to save appearances; and then follow me."

"Follow you?" interposed Geoffrey. "Where?" She drew her chair nearer to
him, and whispered the next words in his ear.

"To a lonely little mountain inn--four miles from this."

"An inn!"

"Why not?"

"An inn is a public place."

A movement of natural impatience escaped her--but she controlled
herself, and went on as quietly as before:

"The place I mean is the loneliest place in the neighborhood. You have
no prying eyes to dread there. I have picked it out expressly for that
reason. It's away from the railway; it's away from the high-road: it's
kept by a decent, respectable Scotchwoman--"

"Decent, respectable Scotchwomen who keep inns," interposed Geoffrey,
"don't cotton to young ladies who are traveling alone. The landlady
won't receive