“You’ve not said anything about Roger, yet.”

“No; I didn’t know if you would care to hear. He is very much older-looking; quite a strong grown-up man. And papa says he is much graver. Ask me any questions, if you want to know, but I have only seen him once.”

“I was in hopes he would have left the neighbourhood by this time. Mamma said he was going to travel again.”

“I can’t tell,” said Molly. “I suppose you know,” she continued, but hesitating a little before she spoke, “that he wishes to see you?”

“No! I never heard. I wish he would have been satisfied with my letter. It was as decided as I could make it. If I say I won’t see him, I wonder if his will or mine will be the stronger?”

“His,” said Molly. “But you must see him; you owe it to him. He will never be satisfied without it.”

“Suppose he talks me round into resuming the engagement? I should only break it off again.”

“Surely, you can’t be talked ‘round,’ if your mind is made up. But perhaps it is not really, Cynthia?” asked she, with a little wistful anxiety betraying itself in her face.

“It is quite made up. I am going to teach little Russian girls, and am never going to marry nobody.”

“You are not serious, Cynthia. And yet it is a very serious thing.”

But Cynthia went into one of her wild moods, and no more reason or sensible meaning was to be got out of her at the time.