“Not until you answer me, Mollie.”

“Answer you?  Answer you what?  You haven’t asked me any question.”

“I told you I loved you.”

“Well,” testily, “you don’t call that a question?”

“Mollie, will you love me?”

“No—­of course not!  Oh, what a torment you are!  Do let us go back!”

“Never!” exclaimed Dr. Oleander, gathering hope—­“never, Mollie, until you answer me!”

He caught both her hands and held them fast, Mollie struggling in vain.

“Oh, dear, dear, what will I say?  And there—­if there isn’t some one coming in!  Let me go, for pity’s sake, and I’ll answer you—­to-morrow.”

“To-night, Mollie—­to-night!”

“I won’t—­there!” wrenching her hands free and springing up.  “Come to-morrow, between twelve and one, and you shall have your answer.”

She darted away, and almost into the arms of Mr. Hugh Ingelow.  That gentleman looked suspiciously from her to Dr. Oleander, emerging from the shadow of the orange-tree.

“Am I de trop, Miss Dane?  I thought to find the conservatory deserted.”

“And so it will be, in a minute,” said Mollie, familiarly taking his arm.  “They are going to supper out yonder, and I am almost famished.  Take me down.”

“And, if I can, I will make you follow Guy Oleander’s lead before I release you,” was the mental addition of the naughty coquette.

It was no difficult task to accomplish.  A powder magazine with the train laid could not have needed a smaller spark to cause its explosion.  Those few words elevated the young artist at once to the loftiest pinnacle of bliss.

“She has just refused Oleander, and I may stand a chance,” he thought.  “I’ll ask her, by Jove! after supper.”

Mr. Ingelow kept his word.  He paid Miss Dane the most marked attention throughout the repast, filled her plate with delicacies and her ears with compliments.  And Mollie was sweet as summer cherries, and took his arm when it was over, and let him lead her into a retired nook where amber curtains shut them in; and there, pale and agitated, the poor fellow said his say and waited for his sentence.

Mollie’s wicked heart smote her.  She liked this handsome young artist more than she was aware of, and the first twinge of remorse for her merciless coquetry filled her mind.

But it was too late to pause in her mischief-making, and the fun ahead was too tempting.

“Speak, Miss Dane,” Mr. Ingelow implored:  “for pity’s sake, don’t say you have led me on only to jilt me in cold blood at the last!”

“Rather strong language, Mr. Ingelow,” said Mollie, coolly pulling to pieces a rose.  “I have not led you on, have I?  I have been friendly with you because I liked you—­as I have been with a dozen others.”

“Then I am to consider myself rejected, Miss Dane?”

He stood up before her, very white, with eyes of unspeakable reproach.