re of dismissal). I beg you to
excuse me, A sick man is apt to be unreasonable."

"Oh, as to that, you know entirely well I do not want to go. You are
unreasonable, indeed, when you talk as you do now. I only went away for
your benefit."

"_Qui s'excuse, s'accuse_."

"But I am not excusing myself; and if you put it so I will go away at
once."

"_Si vous voulez_--"

"But I don't '_voulez_'--Oh, how disagreeable you can be."

"You will stay?"

"Pauline!" called Sophie from across the hall.

"There!" I exclaimed, interpreting it as the voice of conscience. I left
my work-basket and book upon the table, and went out of the room.

"You called me?" I said, following her into the parlor, where, shutting
the door, she motioned me to a seat beside her. She had a slip of paper
and an envelope in her hand, and seemed a little ill at ease.

"I've just had a telegram from Richard," she said. "He's coming home
to-night by the eleven o'clock train. It's so odd altogether. I don't
know why he's coming. But you may as well read his message yourself,"
she said with a forced manner, handing me the paper. It was as follows:

Send carriage for me to eleven-thirty train to-night. Remember my
injunctions, our last conversation, and your promises."

"Well?" I said, looking up, bewildered and not violently interested, for
I was secretly listening to the quick shutting of the library-door.

"Why, you see," she returned, with a forced air of confidence that made
me involuntarily shrink from her; I think she even laid her hand upon my
sleeve, or made some gesture of familiarity which was unusual--

"You see, that last conversation was--about you. Richard is annoyed
at--at your intimacy with Mr. Langenau. You know just as well as I do
how he feels, for no doubt he's spoken to you himself."

"He never has," I said, quite shortly.

"No?" and she looked rather chagrined. "Well--but at all events you know
how he feels. Girls ar'nt slow generally to find out about those things.
And he is really very unhappy about it, very. I wish, Pauline, you'd
give it up, child. It's gone quite far enough; now don't you think so
yourself? Mr. Langenau isn't the sort of man to be serious about, you
know. It's all very well, just for a summer's amusement. But, you know,
you mustn't go too far. I'm sure, dear, you're not angry with me: now
you understand just what I mean, don't you?"

No: not angry, certainly not angry. She went on, still with the
im