‘I had hoped we might both talk rationally as friends.’

’Friends!  Frank Tregear, I have been bold enough to tell you I love you; but you are not my friend, and cannot be my friend.  If I have before asked you to help me in this mean catastrophe of mine, in my attack upon that poor boy, I withdraw my request.  I think I will go back to the house now.’

’I will walk back to Ledburgh if you wish it without going to the house again.’

’No; I will have nothing that looks like being ashamed.  You ought not to have come, but you need not run away.’  Then they walked back to the house together and found Miss Casseawary on the terrace.  ‘We have been to the lake,’ said Mabel, ’and have been talking of old days.  I have but one ambition now in the world.’  Of course Miss Cassewary asked what the remaining ambition was.  ’To get money enough to purchase this place from the ruins of the Grex property.  If I could own the house and the lake, and the paddocks about, and had enough income to keep one servant and bread for us to eat—­of course including you, Miss Cass—­’

‘Thank’ee, my dear; but I am not sure I should like it.’

’Yes; you would.  Frank would come and see us perhaps once a year.  I don’t suppose anybody else cares about the place, but to me it is the dearest spot in the world.’  So she went on in almost high spirits, though alluding to the general decadence of the Grex family, till Tregear took his leave.

‘I wish he had not come,’ said Miss Cassewary when he was gone.

’Why should you wish that?  There is not so much here to amuse me that you should begrudge me a stray visitor.’

’I don’t think I grudge you anything in the way of pleasure, my dear, but still he should not have come.  My Lord, if he knew it, would be angry.’

’Then let him be angry.  Papa does not do much for me that I am bound to think of him at every turn.’

’But I am,—­or rather I am bound to think of myself, if I take his bread.’

‘Bread!’

’Well;—­I do take his bread, and I take it on the understanding that I will be to you what a mother might be,—­or an aunt.’

’Well,—­and if so!  Had I a mother living would not Frank Tregear have come to visit her, and in visiting her, would he not have seen me,—­and should not we have walked out together?’

‘Not after all that has come and gone.’

’But you are not a mother nor yet an aunt, and you have to do just what I tell you.  And don’t I know that you trust me in all things?  And am I not trustworthy?’

‘I think you are trustworthy.’

’I know what my duty is and I mean to do it.  No one shall ever have to say of me that I have given way to self-indulgence.  I couldn’t help his coming here, you know.’