l self.

Letitia puts on a "didn't I tell you?" sort of air, and John says:

"Is that so?" looking at Molly for confirmation.

"Yes, if it is your wish," cries she, forsaking her retreat, and coming
forward to lay her hand upon her brother's arm entreatingly, and with a
gesture full of tenderness. "But if you do object, if it vexes you in
the very slightest degree, John, I----"

"But you will give your consent, Massereene," interrupts her lover,
hastily, as though dreading the remainder of the sentence, "won't you?"
He too has come close up to John, and stands on one side, opposite
Molly. Almost, from the troubled expression of his face as he looks at
the girl, one might imagine him trying to combat her apparent
lukewarmness more then her brother's objections.

"Things seem to have progressed very favorably without my consent,"
says John, glancing at the unlucky table, which has come in for a most
unfair share of the blame. "But before giving you my blessing I
acknowledge--now we are on the subject--I would like to know on what
sum you intend setting up housekeeping." Here Letitia, who has
preserved a strict neutrality throughout, comes more to the front. "It
is inconvenient, and anything but romantic, I know, but people must
eat, and those who indulge in _violent exercise_ are generally
possessed of healthy appetites."

"I have over five hundred a year," says Luttrell, coloring, and feeling
as if he had said fifty and was going to be called presumptuous. He
also feels that John has by some sudden means become very many years
older than he really is.

"That includes everything?"

"Everything. When my uncle--Maxwell Luttrell--hops the--that is, drops
off--I mean dies," says Luttrell whose slang is extensive and rather
confusing, "I shall come in for five thousand pounds more."

"How can you speak in such a cold-blooded way of your uncle's death?"
says Molly, who is not so much impressed by the occasion as she should
be.

"Why not? There is no love lost between us. If he could leave it away
from me he would; but that is out of his power."

"That makes it seven hundred," says Letitia, softly, _a propos_ of
the income.

"Nearer eight," says he, brightening at her tone.

"Molly, you wish to marry Tedcastle?" John asks his sister, gazing at
her earnestly.

"Ye--es; but I'm not in a hurry, you know," replies she, with a little
nod.

Massereene regards her curiously for a moment or two; then he says:

"She