"I won't," says Luttrell; "because I don't believe I would care to see you at all when—you are married." Here, with a rashness unworthy of him, he presses, ever so gently, the slender fingers within his own. Instantly Miss Massereene, with a marked ignoring of the suggestion in his last speech, returns to her forgotten charge.
"I don't want to inconvenience you," she says, demurely, with downcast lids, "but when you have quite done with my hand I think I should like it again. You see it is awkward being without it, as it is the right one."
"I'm not proud," says Luttrell, modestly. "I will try to make myself content if you will give me the left one."
At this they both laugh merrily; and, believe me, when two people so laugh together, there is very little ice left to be broken.
"And are you really glad I have come?" says Luttrell, bending, the better to see into her pretty face. "It sounds so unlikely."
"When one is starving, even dry bread is acceptable," returns Molly, with a swift but cruel glance.
"I refuse to understand you. You surely do not mean——"
"I mean this, that you are not to lay too much stress on the fact of my having said——"
"Well, Luttrell, where are you, old fellow? I suppose you thought you were quite forgotten. Couldn't come a moment sooner,—what with Letitia's comments on your general appearance and my own comments on my tobacco's disappearance. However, here I am at last. Have you been lonely?"
"Not very," says Mr. Luttrell, sotto voce, his eyes fixed on Molly.