tete_,
takes his departure.

Molly is still petting her wounded member when Luttrell reaches her
side.

"What is the matter with you?" he asks, with odious want of sympathy.
"Have you been crying?"

"No," replies Molly, indignant at his tone,--so unlike Shadwell's. "Why
should you think so?"

"Why? Because your eyes are red; and certainly as I came up, Shadwell
appeared to be doing his utmost to console you."

"Anything the matter with you, Teddy?" asks Miss Massereene, with
suspicious sweetness. "You seem put out."

"Yes,"--sternly,--"and with cause. I do not relish coming upon you
suddenly and finding you in Shadwell's arms."

"Where?"

"Well, if not exactly in his arms, very nearly there," says Tedcastle,
vehemently.

"You are forgetting yourself." Coldly. "If you are jealous of Philip,
say so, but do not disgrace yourself by using coarse language. There
was a bit of bark in my eyes. I suppose you think it would have been
better for me to endure torments than allow Philip--who was very
kind--to take it out? If you do, I differ from you."

"I am not speaking alone of this particular instance in which you seem
to favor Shadwell," says the young man, moodily, his eyes fixed upon
the sward beneath him. "Every day it grows more palpable. You scarcely
care to hide your sentiments now."

"You mean"--impatiently--"you would wish me to speak to no one except
you. You don't take into account how slow this would be for me." She
says this cruelly. "I care no more for Philip than I do for any other
man."

"Just so. I am the other man, no doubt. I have never been blind to the
fact that you do not care for me. Why take the trouble of acting a part
any longer?"

"'Acting a part'! Nonsense!" says Molly. "I always think that the most
absurd phrase in the world. Who does not act a part? The thing is to
act a good one."

"Is yours a good part?" Bitterly.

"You are the best judge of that," returns she, haughtily. "If you do
not think so, why keep to our engagement? If you wish to break it, you
need fear no opposition from me." So saying, she sweeps past him and
enters the house.

Yet in spite of her anger and offended pride, her eyes are wet and her
hands trembling as she reaches Cecil's room and lays the snow-white
flowers upon her table.

Cecil is still lying comfortably ensconced among her pillows, but has
sufficient wakefulness about her to notice Molly's agitation.

"You have been quarreling, _ma belle_,"