and let myself be natural and smile at him. His eyebrows went up in that
questioning, pathetic way he has, and he looked so attractive--that made
me remember again, and instantly turn away. When we were coming into the
hall, while Lady Ver and Mrs. Fairfax were up putting on their cloaks,
Lord Robert came up close to me and whispered:

"I _can't_ understand you. There is some reason for your treating me like
this, and I will find it out. Why are you so cruel, little, wicked tiger
cat?" and he pinched one of my fingers until I could have cried out.

That made me so angry.

"How dare you touch me!" I said. "It is because you know I have no one to
take care of me that you presume like this."

I felt my eyes blaze at him, but there was a lump in my throat. I would
not have been hurt if it had been any one else, only angry; but he had
been so respectful and gentle with me at Branches, and I had liked him so
much. It seemed more cruel for him to be impertinent now.

His face fell; indeed, all the fierceness went out of it, and he looked
intensely miserable.

"Oh, don't say that!" he said, in a choked voice. "I--oh, that is the one
thing you know is not true."

Mr. Campion, with his fur coat fastened, came up at that moment, saying
gallant things, and insinuating that we must meet again, but I said
good-night quietly, and came up the stairs without a word more to Lord
Robert.

"Good-night, Evangeline, pet," Lady Ver said, when I met her on the
drawing-room landing, coming down. "I do feel a wretch, leaving you, but
to-morrow I will really try and amuse you. You look very pale, child; the
journey has tried you, probably."

"Yes, I am tired," I tried to say in a natural voice, but the end word
shook a little, and Lord Robert was just behind, having run up the stairs
after me, so I fear he must have heard.

"Miss Travers--please--" he implored, but I walked on up the next flight,
and Lady Ver put her hand on his arm and drew him down with her, and as I
got up to the fourth floor I heard the front door shut.

And now they are gone and I am alone. My tiny room is comfortable, and the
fire is burning brightly. I have a big arm-chair and books, and this, my
journal, and all is cosey--only I feel so miserable.

I won't cry and be a silly coward.

Why, of course it is amusing to be free. And I am _not_ grieving over Mrs.
Carruthers's death--only perhaps I am lonely, and I wish I were at the
theatre. No, I don't--I--Oh,