"No, Mamma; I think London gaiety is rather too much for me. I'm too
young for it, as you often say, and I've found it out."

"Then it is only weariness that makes you so pale and grave, and so bent
on coming back here?"

Lillian was the soul of truth, and with a moment's hesitation answered
slowly, "Not that alone, Mamma. I'm worried about other things. Don't
ask me what, please."

"But I must ask. Tell me, child, what things? Have you seen any one? Had
letters, or been annoyed in any way about--anything?"

My lady spoke with sudden energy and rose on her arm, eyeing the girl
with unmistakable suspicion and excitement.

"No, Mamma, it's only a foolish trouble of my own," answered Lillian,
with a glance of surprise and a shamefaced look as the words reluctantly
left her lips.

"Ah, a love trouble, nothing more? Thank God for that!" And my lady sank
back as if a load was off her mind. "Tell me all, my darling; there is
no confidante like a mother."

"You are very kind, and perhaps you can cure my folly if I tell it, and
yet I am ashamed," murmured the girl. Then yielding to an irresistible
impulse to ask help and sympathy, she added, in an almost inaudible
tone, "I came away to escape from Paul."

"Because he loves you, Lillian?" asked my lady, with a frown and a half