“But have I really done so?” said she, hurriedly turning round and fixing her large full eyes upon me, while one of her hands played convulsively through my hair—­“have I your heart? your whole heart?”

“Can you doubt it, dearest,” said I, passionately pressing her to my bosom; and at the same time muttering, “What the devil’s in the wind now; we are surely not going to patch up our separation, and make love in earnest.”

There she lay, her head upon my shoulder, her long, brown, waving ringlets falling loosely across my face and on my bosom, her hand in mine.  What were her thoughts I cannot guess—­mine, God forgive me, were a fervent wish either for her mother’s appearance, or that the hotel would suddenly take fire, or some other extensive calamity arise to put the finishing stroke to this embarassing situation.

None of these, however, were destined to occur; and Emily lay still and motionless as she was, scarce seeming to breathe, and pale as death.  What can this mean, said I, surely this is not the usual way to treat with a rejected suitor; if it be, why then, by Jupiter the successful one must have rather the worst of it—­and I fervently hope that Lady Jane be not at this moment giving his conge to some disappointed swain.  She slowly raised her long, black fringed eyelids, and looked into my face, with an expression at once so tender and so plaintive, that I felt a struggle within myself whether to press her to my heart, or—­what the deuce was the alternative.  I hope my reader knows, for I really do not.  And after all, thought I, if we are to marry, I am only anticipating a little; and if not, why then a “chaste salute,” as Winifred Jenkins calls it, she’ll be none the worse for.  Acting at once upon this resolve, I leaned downwards, and passing back her ringlets from her now flushed cheek, I was startled by my name, which I heard called several times in the corridor.  The door at the same instant was burst suddenly open, and Trevanion appeared.

“Harry, Harry Lorrequer,” cried he, as he entered; then suddenly checking himself, added “a thousand, ten thousand pardons.  But—­”

“But what,” cried I passionately, forgetting all save the situation of poor Emily at the moment, “what can justify—­”

“Nothing certainly can justify such an intrusion,” said Trevanion, finishing my sentence for me, “except the very near danger you run this moment in being arrested.  O’Leary’s imprudence has compromised your safety, and you must leave Paris within an hour.”

“Oh, Mr. Trevanion,” said Emily, who by this time had regained a more befitting attitude, “pray speak out; what is it? is Harry—­is Mr. Lorrequer, I mean, in any danger?”

“Nothing of consequence, Miss Bingham, if he only act with prudence, and be guided by his friends.  Lorrequer, you will find me in your apartments in half an hour—­till then, adieu.”