“What shall I do?”

“Yes; what will you do?  I have told you all my story, believing you to be a fine-tempered gentleman.  You have entertained a fancy which has been encouraged by Sir Magnus.  Will you promise me not to speak to me of it again?  Will you relieve me of so much of my trouble?  Will you;—­will you?” Then, when he turned away, she followed him, and put both her hands upon his arm.  “Will you do that little thing for me?”

“A little thing!”

“Is it not a little thing,—­when I am so bound to that other man that nothing can move me?  Whether it be little or whether it be much, will you not do it?” She still held him by the arm, but his face was turned from her so that she could not see it.  The tears, absolute tears, were running down his cheeks.  What did it behoove him as a man to do?  Was he to believe her vows now and grant her request, and was she then to give herself to some third person and forget Harry Annesley altogether?  How would it be with him then?  A faint heart never won a fair lady.  All is fair in love and war.  You cannot catch cherries by holding your mouth open.  A great amount of wisdom such as this came to him at the spur of the moment.  But there was her hand upon his arm, and he could not elude her request.  “Will you not do it for me?” she asked again.

“I will,” he said, still keeping his face turned away.

“I knew it;—­I knew you would.  You are high-minded and honest, and cannot be cruel to a poor girl.  And if in time to come, when I am Harry Annesley’s wife, we shall chance to meet each other,—­as we will,—­he shall thank you.”

“I shall not want that.  What will his thanks do for me?  You do not think that I shall be silent to oblige him?” Then he walked forth from out of the garden, and she had never seen his tears.  But she knew well that he was weeping, and she sympathized with him.

CHAPTER XXXII.

MR. ANDERSON IS ILL.

When they went down to dinner that day it became known that Mr. Anderson did not intend to dine with them.  “He’s got a headache,” said Sir Magnus.  “He says he’s got a headache.  I never knew such a thing in my life before.”  It was quite clear that Sir Magnus did not think that his lieutenant ought to have such a headache as would prevent his coming to dinner, and that he did not quite believe in the headache.  There was a dinner ready, a very good dinner, which it was his business to provide.  He always did provide it, and took a great deal of trouble to see that it was good.  “There isn’t a table so well kept in all Brussels,” he used to boast.  But when he had done his share he expected that Anderson and Arbuthnot should do theirs, especially Anderson.  There had been sometimes a few words,—­not quite a quarrel but nearly so,—­on the subject of dining out.  Sir Magnus only dined out with royalty, cabinet ministers, and other diplomats.  Even