‘Humph! You took three-quarters of an hour to walk a mile. Was it you or Moore who lingered so?’

‘Shirley, you talk nonsense.’

‘He talked nonsense—that I doubt not; or he looked it, which is a thousand times worse; I see the reflection of his eyes on your forehead at this moment. I feel disposed to call him out, if I could only get a trust- worthy second. I feel desperately irritated; I felt so last night, and have felt it all day. You don’t ask me why,’ she proceeded, after a pause, ‘you little silent, over-modest thing; and you don’t deserve that I should pour out my secrets into your lap without an invitation. Upon my word, I could have found it in my heart to have dogged Moore yesterday evening with dire intent. I have pistols, and can use them.’

‘Stuff, Shirley! Which would you have shot—me or Robert?’

‘Neither; perhaps—perhaps myself—more likely a bat or a tree bough. He is a puppy, your cousin—a quiet, serious, sensible, judicious, ambitious puppy. I see him standing before me, talking his half-stern, half-gentle talk, bearing me down (as I am very conscious he does) with his fixity of purpose, etc.; and then— I have no patience with him!’

Miss Keeldar started off on a rapid walk through the room, repeating energetically that she had no patience with men in general, and with her tenant in particular.

‘You are mistaken,’ urged Caroline, in some anxiety. ‘Robert is no puppy or male flirt; I can vouch for that.’

‘You vouch for it! Do you think I’ll take your word on the subject? There is no one’s testimony I would not credit sooner than yours. To advance Moore’s fortune you would cut off your right hand.’

‘But not tell lies; and if I speak the truth, I must assure you that he was just civil to me last night—that was all.’

‘I never asked what he was; I can guess. I saw him from the window take your hand in his long fingers just as he went out at my gate.’

‘That is nothing. I am not a stranger, you know: I am an old acquaintance, and his cousin.’

‘I feel indignant, and that is the long and short of the matter,’ responded Miss Keeldar. ‘All my comfort,’ she added presently, ‘is broken up by his manœuvres. He keeps intruding between you and me; without him we should be good friends, but that six feet of puppyhood makes a perpetually-recurring eclipse of our friendship. Again and again he crosses and obscures the disc I want always to see clear; ever and anon he renders me to you a mere bore and nuisance.’

‘No, Shirley—no.’

‘He does. You did not want my society this afternoon, and I feel it hard; you are naturally somewhat reserved, but I am a social personage, who cannot live alone. If we were but left unmolested, I have that regard for you that I could bear you in my presence for ever, and not for the fraction of a second do I ever wish to be rid of you. You cannot say as much respecting me.’

‘Shirley, I can say anything you wish. Shirley, I like you.’

‘You will wish me at Jericho to-morrow, Lina.’

‘I shall not. I am every day growing more accustomed to—fonder of you. You know I am too English to get up a vehement friendship all at once; but you are so much better than common—you are so different to everyday young ladies. I esteem you, I value you. You are never a burden to me, never. Do you believe what I say?’