“Why so?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“In moments of depression it strikes Barbara and me, that me and Tou Tou shall end by being three old cats together.”

“Are you so anxious to be married?” he asks with an air of wonder, “in such a hurry to leave so happy a home?”

“Every one knows best where his own shoe pinches,” I answer vernacularly.  “I am afraid that it does not sound very lady-like, but since you ask me the question, I am rather anxious.  Barbara is not:  I am.”

A shade of I cannot exactly say what emotion—­it looks like disappointment, but surely it cannot be that—­passes across the sunshine of his face.

“All my plans hinge on my marrying,” I continue, feeling drawn, I do not know how or why, into confidential communication to this almost total stranger, “and what is more, on my marrying a rich man.”

“And what are your plans?” he asks, with an air of benevolent interest, but that unexplained shade is still there.

“Their name is Legion,” I answer; “you will be very tired before I get to the end of them.”

“Try me.”  “Firstly then,” say I, narratively, “my husband must have a great deal of interest in several professions—­the army, the navy, the bar—­so as to give the boys a helping hand; then he must have some shooting—­good shooting for them; for them all, that is, except Bobby! never shall he fire a gun in my preserves!”

My mind again wanders away to my vengeances, and I break off.

“Well!”

“He must also keep two or three horses for them to hunt:  Algy loves hunting, but he hardly ever gets a day.  He is so big, poor dear old boy, that nobody ever gives him a mount—­”

“Yes?”

“Well, then, I should like to be able to have some nice parties—­dancing and theatricals, and that sort of thing, for Barbara—­father will never hardly let us have a soul here—­and to buy her some pretty dresses to set off her beauty—­”

“Yes?”

“And then I should like to have a nice, large, cheerful house, where mother could come and stay with me, for two or three months at a time, and get clear away from the worries of house-keeping and—­” the tyranny of father, I am about to add, but pull myself up with a jerk, and substitute lamely and stammeringly “and—­and—­others.”

“Any thing else?”

“I should not at all mind a donkey-carriage for Tou Tou, but I shall not insist upon that.”

He is smiling broadly now.  The shade has fled away, and only sunshine remains.

“And what for yourself? you seem to have forgotten yourself!”

“For myself!” I echo, in surprise, “I have been telling you—­you cannot have been listening—­all these things are for myself.”

Again he has turned his face half away.

“I hope you will get your wish,” he says shortly and yet heartily.