“I can fancy you in the bush!”

“Anything would be preferable to the false, hollow life I lead.  I want rest.  I could pray for it.  I long to lay my head peacefully where—­”

“Wherever you please.  Try Mr. Purling’s shoulder.  You have my full permission.”

Phillipa’s eyes flashed fire at this heartless persiflage.

“There is no such luck.”

“Can he dare to be indifferent?  How you must hate him!”

“As I did you.”

“And do still?  Thank you.  But I wish you joy.  When is it to be?”

“I tell you there is absolutely nothing between us.  Mr. Purling is, to the best of my belief, engaged already.”

“Not with his mother’s consent, surely?  Why, then, has she made so much of you?”

“No; not with her consent; indeed, it is quite against her wish.  Mrs. Purling as much as told me that if her son married this cousin he would be disinherited.  They do not agree very well together now.”

“It’s all hers—­the old woman’s—­in her own right?”

“So far as I know.”

Gilly Jillingham lay back in his chair and mused for a while.

“It’s not a bad game if the cards play true.”

His evil genius, had he been present, might have hinted that sometimes the cards played for Mr. Jillingham a little too true.

“Not a bad game.  Phillipa, how do you stand with this old beldame?”

“She pretends the most ardent affection for me.”

“There are no other relatives, no one she would take up if this son gave unpardonable offence?”

“Not that I know of.  Besides, she calls me her dear daughter already.”

“And would adopt you, doubtless, if the cub were got out of the way.  Yes, it can be done, I believe, and you can do it, Phillipa, if you please.  Only persuade the old lady to make you the heiress of the Purlings, and there will be an end to your troubles—­and mine.”

Soon after this conversation Miss Fanshawe returned to Purlington.  The heiress smothered her with caresses.

“I shall not let you go away again.  We have missed you more than I can say.”

“And you also, Mr. Harold?  Are you glad to see me again?”

Harold bowed courteously.

“Of course; I have been counting the hours to Miss Fanshawe’s return.”

“Fibs!  I can’t believe it.”

By-and-by she came to him.

“Why cannot we be friends, Mr. Purling?  It pains me to be hated as you hate me.”

“You are really quite mistaken,” Harold began.

“I am ready to prove my friendship.  I know all about Miss Driver—­there!”

“Do you know where she is at this present moment?” Harold asked, eagerly.

“You really wish to know?  Your mother will tell me, I daresay.  How hard hit you must be!  But there is my hand on it.  You shall have all the help that I can give.”

Next day she told him.