’You should not speak so of the person you profess to wish to have for your wife.  But putting all that aside, you have some letters of hers that she wishes to have back again.’

‘I dare say.’

‘And that you have no right to keep.’

‘No legal, or no moral right? which do you mean?’

’I do not know; simply you have no right at all, as a gentleman, to keep a girl’s letters when she asks for them back again, much less to hold them over her as a threat.’

‘I see you do know all, Miss Gibson,’ said he, changing his manner to one of more respect.  ’At least she has told you her story from her point of view, her side; now you must hear mine.  She promised me as solemnly as ever woman—­’

‘She was not a woman, she was only a girl, barely sixteen.’

’Old enough to know what she was doing; but I’ll call her a girl if you like.  She promised me solemnly to be my wife, making the one stipulation of secrecy, and a certain period of waiting; she wrote me letters repeating this promise, and confidential enough to prove that she considered herself bound to me by such an implied relation.  I don’t give in to humbug—­I don’t set myself up as a saint—­and in most ways I can look after my own interests pretty keenly; you know enough of her position as a penniless girl, and at that time, with no influential connections to take the place of wealth, and help me on in the world, it was as sincere and unworldly a passion as ever man felt; she must say so herself.  I might have married two or three girls with plenty of money; one of them was handsome enough, and not at all reluctant.’

Molly interrupted him; she was chafed at the conceit of his manner.  ’I beg your pardon, but I do not want to hear accounts of young ladies whom you might have married; I come here simply on behalf of Cynthia, who does not like you, and who does not wish to marry you.’

’Well, then I must make her “like” me, as you call it.  She did “like” me once, and made promises which she will find it requires the consent of two people to break.  I don’t despair of making her love me as much as ever she did, according to her letters, at least, when we are married.’

‘She will never marry you,’ said Molly, firmly.

’Then if she ever honours any one else with her preference, he shall be allowed the perusal of her letters to me.’

Molly almost could have laughed; she was so secure and certain that Roger would never read letters offered to him under these circumstances; but then she thought that he would feel such pain at the whole affair, and at the contact with Mr. Preston, especially if he had not heard of it from Cynthia first, and if she, Molly, could save him pain she would.  Before she could settle what to say, Mr Preston spoke again.

‘You said the other day that Cynthia was engaged.  May I ask whom to?’

‘No,’ said Molly, ’you may not.  You heard her say it was not an engagement.  It is not exactly; and if it were a full engagement, do you think, after what you last said, I should tell you to whom?  But you may be sure of this, he would never read a line of your letters.  He is too—­No!  I won’t speak of him before you.  You could never understand him.’