in the
golden sunshine among the roses, and the bees humming from flower to
flower, and the flitting butterflies. But Verna's answer was the same
steady shake of the head.

"It's of no use, Harry," she said. "I like you very much, as you know,
but not in that way. People are drawn towards each other--in that way--
or they are not. I mean, you were talking about luck changing, and so
on, but if you were ever such a millionaire I'm afraid it would make no
difference in that way. Now do you see?"

He said nothing. He looked at her with misery in his eyes. Never had
she seemed so all-alluring as here under the burning midday sun, so cool
and fresh and self-possessed. And it was hopeless.

"Well, I suppose I'm nothing but a born idiot," he said, but not
resentfully.

Verna laid a hand upon his arm.

"No, you're not," she said. "Only--your luck is elsewhere. You'll find
it some day sooner or later, and remember my words."

Then she looked at him in astonishment, for a scowl had come over his
face. Following his glance she saw the reason. Denham was walking
along the path which led to the house. He must have seen them, but
looked as if he had not, and passed on without any attempt to join them.
Verna's astonishment was dispelled, but she made no remark as to it or
its cause. Tactfully she led Harry Stride on to other topics, and his
jealous eyes noted that she made no excuse to return to the house, in
fact, she drew him off down a little-used path under the trees; nor was
it until an hour after that they returned, a little late for lunch,
Verna declaring, publicly, that they had had a most delightful walk.

Yes, but for all that, she and Denham would be for weeks beneath the
same roof, thought poor Stride. How lucky some men were, how unlucky
others. This one apparently had not a care in the world, and now he was
going to rob him, Stride, of all that made life worth living. How he
hated him, sitting there beside Verna, chatting easily to her.

"What's the matter with your appetite, Mr Stride?" remarked the
hostess, noticing that he sent everything away almost untouched.

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs Shelford. It's too hot, I suppose. Or it may
be that I tried a new concoction at the club that some fellow left them
a recipe for. It's supposed to be an appetiser, but I thought it vile.
Heard any more about Shelford coming back, by the way?"

"I'm expecting him next week."

"Sorry, because I shall miss