About three o'clock on that day Mr Whittlestaff came home. The pony-carriage had gone to meet him, but Mary remained purposely out of the way. She could not rush out to greet him, as she would have done had his absence been occasioned by any other cause. But he had no sooner taken his place in the library than he sent for her. He had been thinking about it all the way down from London, and had in some sort prepared his words. During the next half hour he did promise himself some pleasure, after that his life was to be altogether a blank to him. He would go. To that only had he made up his mind. He would tell Mary that she should be happy. He would make Mrs Baggett understand that for the sake of his property she must remain at Croker's Hall for some period to which he would decline to name an end. And then he would go.

"Well, Mary," he said, smiling, "so I have got back safe."

"Yes; I see you have got back."

"I saw a friend of yours when I was up in London."

"I have had a letter, you know, from Mr Gordon."

"He has written, has he? Then he has been very sudden."

"He said he had your leave to write."

"That is true. He had. I thought that, perhaps, he would have taken more time to think about it."

"I suppose he knew what he had to say," said Mary. And then she blushed, as though fearing that she had appeared to have been quite sure that her lover would not have been so dull.

"I daresay."

"I didn't quite mean that I knew."

"But you did."

"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff! But I will not attempt to deceive you. If you left it to him, he would know what to say,—immediately."

"No doubt! No doubt!"

"When he had come here all the way from South Africa on purpose to see me, as he said, of course he would know. Why should there be any pretence¹ on my part?"

"Why, indeed?"

"But I have not answered him;—not as yet."

"There need be no delay."

"I would not do it till you had come. I may have known what he would say to me, but I may be much in doubt what I should say to him."

"You may say what you like." He answered her crossly, and she heard the tone. But he was aware of it also, and felt that he was disgracing himself. There was none of the half-hour of joy which he had promised himself. He had struggled so hard to give her everything, and he might, at any rate, have perfected his gift with good humour. "You know you have my full permission," he said, with a smile. But he was aware that this smile was not pleasant,—was not such a smile as would make her happy. But it did not signify. When he was gone away,

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