nd when have you seen her?" I said, a little choked for
breath.

"She is very well. I saw her yesterday," he answered, still looking at
the little picture.

"Was she with Sophie this summer?"

"Yes, for almost two months."

"I hope she doesn't keep everybody in order as sharply as she used to?"
I said, with a bitter little laugh.

"I don't know," he said. "I think, perhaps, she is rather less decided
than she used to be."

"Oh, you call it decision, do you? Well, I'm glad I know what it is. I
used to think it hadn't such a pretty name as that."

Richard looked grave; it certainly was not a graceful way to lead up to
congratulations.

"But then, you always liked her," I said.

"Yes, I always liked her," he answered, simply.

"I'm afraid I'm not very amiable," I retorted, "for I never liked her:
no better even than that fraudulent Mary Leighton, clever and sensible
as she always was. There is such a thing as being too clever, and too
sensible, and making yourself an offence to all less admirable people."

Richard was entirely silent, and, I was sure, was disapproving of me
very much.

"Do you know what I heard yesterday?" I said, In a daring way. "And I
hope you're going to tell me if it's true, to-night?"

"What was it that you heard yesterday?" he asked, without much change of
tone. He had laid down the photograph, and had gone back, and was
leaning by the mantelpiece again.

"Why, I heard that you were going to marry Charlotte Benson. Is it
true?"

I had pushed away the pile of photographs from me, and had looked up at
him when I began, but my voice and courage rather failed before the end,
and my eyes fell. There was a silence--a silence that seemed to
stifle me.

"Why do you ask me that question?" he said, at last, in a low voice. "Do
you believe I am, yourself?"

"No," I cried, springing up, and going over to his side. "No, I don't
believe it. Tell me it isn't true, and promise me you won't ever, ever
marry Charlotte Benson."

The relief was so unspeakable that I didn't care what I said, and the
joy I felt showed itself in my face and voice. I put out my hand to him
when I said "promise me," but he did not take it, and turned his head
away from me.

"I shall not marry Charlotte Benson," he said; "but I cannot understand
what difference it makes to you."

It was now my turn to be silent, and I shrank back a step or two in
great confusion.

He raised his head, and looked steadily at me fo