“I shall never be able to repay your father for his kindness,” said Hardy, meaningly, as he took a chair near her.

“I expect he was pleased at this marriage,” said Miss Nugent, coldly.  “How did it happen?”

Mr. Hardy shifted uneasily in his chair.  “There isn’t much to tell,” he said, reluctantly; “and you—­you might not approve of the means by which the end was gained.”

“Still, I want to hear about it,” said Miss Nugent.

For the second time that evening Hardy told his story.  It seemed more discreditable each time he told it, and he scanned the girl’s face anxiously as he proceeded, but, like her father, she sat still and made no comment until he had finished.  Then she expressed a strong feeling of gratitude that the Nugent family had not been mixed up in it.

“Why?” inquired Hardy, bluntly.

“I don’t think it was a very nice thing to do,” said Miss Nugent, with a superior air.

“It wouldn’t have been a very nice thing for you if your brother had married Miss Kybird,” said the indignant Jem.  “And you said, if you remember, that you didn’t mind what I did.”

“I don’t,” said Miss Nugent, noticing with pleasure that the confident air of a few minutes ago had quite disappeared.

“You think I have been behaving badly?” pursued Hardy.

“I would rather not say what I think,” replied Miss Nugent, loftily.  “I have no doubt you meant well, and I should be sorry to hurt your feelings.”

“Thank you,” said Hardy, and sat gloomily gazing about him.  For some time neither of them spoke.

“Where is Jack now?” inquired the girl, at last.  “He is staying with me for a few days,” said Hardy.  “I sincerely hope that the association will not be injurious to him.”

“Are you trying to be rude to me?” inquired Miss Nugent, raising her clear eyes to his.

“I am sorry,” said Hardy, hastily.  “You are quite right, of course.  It was not a nice thing to do, but I would do a thousand times worse to please you.”

Miss Nugent thanked him warmly; he seemed to understand her so well, she said.

“I mean,” said Hardy, leaning forward and speaking with a vehemence which made the girl instinctively avert her head—­“I mean that to please you would be the greatest happiness I could know.  I love you.”

Miss Nugent sat silent, and a strong sense of the monstrous unfairness of such a sudden attack possessed her.  Such a declaration she felt ought to have been led up to by numerous delicate gradations of speech, each a little more daring than the last, but none so daring that they could not have been checked at any time by the exercise of a little firmness.

“If you would do anything to please me,” she said at length in a low voice, and without turning her head, “would you promise never to try and see me or speak to me again if I asked you?”

“No,” said Hardy, promptly.