“No, he wasn’t a wretch at all; he was awfully handsome, only, you know, he—­was—­so—­awfully persevering, and kept so at my heels; but I hurried home from Brighton, and thought I had got rid of him.”

“And hadn’t you?”

“Oh dear, no,” said Minnie, mournfully.  “On the day after my arrival there came a letter; and, you know, I had to answer it; and then another; and so it went on—­”

“Oh, Minnie! why didn’t you tell me before?”

“How could I when you were off in that horrid Scotland?  I always hated Scotland.”

“You might have told papa.”

“I couldn’t.  I think papa’s cruel too.  He doesn’t care for me at all.  Why didn’t he find out our correspondence and intercept it, the way papas always do in novels?  If I were his papa I’d not let him be so worried.”

“And did he never call on you?”

“Yes; he got leave of absence once, and I had a dreadful time with him.  He was in a desperate state of mind.  He was ordered off to Gibraltar.  But I managed to comfort him; and, oh dear, Kitty dear, did you ever try to comfort a man, and the man a total stranger?”

At this innocent question Mrs. Willoughby’s gravity gave way a little.

Minnie frowned, and then sighed.

“Well, you needn’t be so unkind,” said she; and then her little hand tried to wipe away a tear, but failed.

“Did he go to Gibraltar?” asked Mrs. Willoughby at length.

“Yes, he did,” said Minnie, with a little asperity.

“Did he write?”

“Of course he wrote,” in the same tone.

“Well, how did it end?”

“End!  It didn’t end at all.  And it never will end.  It’ll go on getting worse and worse every day.  You see he wrote, and said a lot of rubbish about his getting leave of absence and coming to see me.  And then I determined to run away; and you know I begged you to take me to Italy, and this is the first time I’ve told you the real reason.”

“So that was the real reason?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Minnie, my poor child,” said Mrs. Willoughby, after a pause, “you’re safe from your officer, at any rate; and as to Count Girasole, we must save you from him.  Don’t give way.”

“But you can’t save me.  They’ll come after me, I know.  Captain Kirby, the moment he finds out that I am here, will come flying after me; and then, oh dear! the other one will come, and the American, too, of course.”

“The what? who?” cried Mrs. Willoughby, starting up with new excitement.  “Who’s that?  What did you say, Minnie?  The American?  What American?”

Minnie threw a look of reproach at her sister, and her eyes fell.

“You can’t possibly mean that there are any more—­”

“There—­is—­one—­more,” said Minnie, in a low, faint voice, stealing a glance at her sister, and looking a little frightened.