indeed you must."

"You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister,"
he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a
mutual confidence.

"Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for
both of us?"

"Desmond? he will never marry."

"It is certainly possible."

"You know how I am clogged."

I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that
it was time to retire.

"Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as
will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into
toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine."

I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated
his eyebrows, and asked:

"What time shall I get up, sir?"

"I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled."

He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night.

"The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our
breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet
of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask
of wine mixed with water."

I thanked him, and tied my bonnet.

"Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for
your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and
one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed,
his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor.

He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning
air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a
paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it
in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show
Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one
of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from
Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were
jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out
the flowers, I showed him the box.

"What a curious bouquet," he said.

In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for
Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight.

"No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at
Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the
car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for
miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The
day was m