Can
I do anything for you?"

"You can," replies Miss Massereene, in a lugubrious voice; though, in
spite of her pain, she can with difficulty repress an inclination to
laugh, so dismal is his manner. "Oh! you _can_."

"Tell me what. There is nothing--_Speak_, Molly."

"Well, I'm not exactly weeping," says Miss Massereene, slowly
withdrawing one hand from her face, so as to let the best eye rest upon
him; "it is hardly mental anguish I'm enduring. But if you can get this
awful thing that is in my eye out of it I shall be intensely grateful."

"Is that all?" asks Philip, much relieved.

"And plenty, too, I think. Here, do try if you can see anything."

"Poor eye!"--pathetically--"how inflamed it is! Let me
see--there--don't blink--I won't be able to get at it if you do. Now,
turn your eye to the right. No. Now to the left. Yes, there is,"
excitedly. "No, it isn't," disappointedly. "Now let me look below; it
_must_ be there."

Just at this delicate moment who should turn the corner but Luttrell!
Oh, those unlucky corners that will occur in life, bringing people upon
the scene, without a word of warning, at the very time when they are
least wanted!

Luttrell, coming briskly onward in search of his ladylove, sees, marks,
and comes to a dead stop. And this is what he sees.

Molly in Philip's--well, if not exactly in his embrace, something very
near it; Philip looking with wild anxiety into the very depths of
Molly's lovely eyes, while the lovely eyes look back at Philip full of
deep entreaty. Tableau!

It is too much. Luttrell, stung cruelly, turns as if to withdraw, but
after a step or two finds himself unable to carry out the dignified
intention, and pauses irresolutely. His back being turned, however, he
is not in at the closing act, when Philip produces triumphantly on the
tip of his finger such a mere atom of matter as makes one wonder how it
could ever have caused so much annoyance.

"Are you better now?" he asks, anxiously, yet with pardonable pride.

"I--am--thank you." Blinking thoughtfully, as though not yet assured of
the relief. "I am so much obliged to you. And--yes, I _am_ better.
Quite well, I think. What should I have done without you?"

"Ah, that I could believe myself necessary to you at any time!" Philip
is beginning, with fluent sentimentality, when, catching sight of
Tedcastle, he stops abruptly. "Here is Luttrell," he says, in an
injured tone, and seeing no further prospect of a _tete-a-