coquetting about some flowers, which she either would not give, or would not take.  Just then, for the lovers had emerged from the shrubbery into comparatively public life, Maria was seen approaching; apparently she had feminine tact enough to induce Cynthia to leave her present admirer, and go a few steps to meet her to receive the whispered message that Mr. Roger Hamley was there, and wished to speak to her.  Roger could see her startled gesture, she turned back to say something to Mr. Henderson before coming towards the house.  Now Roger spoke to Molly—­spoke hurriedly, spoke hoarsely.

’Molly, tell me!  It is too late for me to speak to Cynthia?  I came on purpose.  Who is that man?’

’Mr. Henderson.  He only came to-day—­but now he is her accepted lover.  Oh, Roger, forgive me the pain!’

’Tell her I have been, and am gone.  Send out word to her.  Don’t let her be interrupted.’

And Roger ran downstairs at full speed, and Molly heard the passionate clang of the outer door.  He had hardly left the house before Cynthia entered the room, pale and resolute.

‘Where is he?’ she said, looking around, as if he might yet be hidden.

‘Gone!’ said Molly, very faint.

’Gone.  Oh, what a relief!  It seems to be my fate never to be off with the old lover before I am on with the new, and yet I did write as decidedly as I could.  Why, Molly, what’s the matter?’ for now Molly had fainted away utterly.  Cynthia flew to the bell, summoned Maria, water, salts, wine, everything; and as soon as Molly, gasping and miserable, became conscious again, she wrote a little pencil-note to Mr. Henderson, bidding him return to the “George,” whence he had come in the morning, and saying that if he obeyed her at once, he might be allowed to call again in the evening, otherwise she would not see him till the next day.  This she sent down by Maria, and the unlucky man never believed but that it was Miss Gibson’s sudden indisposition in the first instance that had deprived him of his charmer’s company.  He comforted himself for the long solitary afternoon by writing to tell all his friends of his happiness, and amongst them uncle and aunt Kirkpatrick, who received his letter by the same post as that discreet epistle of Mrs Gibson’s, which she had carefully arranged to reveal as much as she wished, and no more.

‘Was he very terrible?’ asked Cynthia, as she sate with Molly in the stillness of Mrs. Gibson’s dressing-room.

‘Oh, Cynthia, it was such pain to see him, he suffered so!’

‘I don’t like people of deep feelings,’ said Cynthia, pouting.  ’They don’t suit me.  Why could not he let me go without this fuss.  I’m not worth his caring for!’

’You have the happy gift of making people love you.  Remember Mr Preston,—­he too would not give up hope.’

’Now I won’t have you classing Roger Hamley and Mr. Preston together in the same sentence.  One was as much too bad for me, as the other is too good.  Now I hope that maxi in the garden is the juste milieu,—­I’m that myself, for I don’t think I’m vicious, and I know I’m not virtuous.’