eyes, at
the little jewelled watch on her wrist, wondering if in the arrival
of a belated visitor there might not still be some respite.

"You are not going out?" he asked tentatively, detecting her. "I
expect my sister will be here soon."

"No, I am not going out," admitted the girl reluctantly. "I am on
duty, you know. Somebody may arrive at any minute," she added, not
quite ingenuously. "Let us hope it will be your sister."

"I hope not--not just yet," he protested. "It is so long, Miss
Masters, since I have seen you alone. That is my excuse for having
remained such an unconscionable time. I have to seize an
opportunity."

She made no remark, sitting back in the chair, her fine head bent a
little, thoughtfully, her hands folded quietly in her lap, in an
attitude of resignation to the inevitable.

"You can't mistake me," he went on at last eagerly. "I have kept to
the stipulation; I have been silent for a long time. I have been to
see you, certainly, but not so often as I should have liked, and I
have said nothing to you of the only thing that was in my head.
Now"--he hesitated for an instant, then completed his phrase with an
intonation almost passionate--"now I want my reward! Can't
you--can't you give it me, Mary?"

The girl said nothing for a moment, looking away from him into the
corners of the empty room, her delicate eyebrows knitted a little,
as though she sought inspiration from some of Lady Garnett's choicer
_bibelots_, from the little rose and amber shepherdess of Watteau, who
glanced out at her daintily, imperturbably from the midst of her
_fete galante_. At last she said quietly:

"I am sorry, Mr. Sylvester, I can only say, as I said before, it is
a great honour you do me, but it's impossible."

"Perhaps I should have waited longer," suggested Charles, after a
moment's silence, in which he appeared to be deeply pondering her
sentence. "I have taken you by surprise; you have not sufficiently
considered----"

"Oh, I have considered," cried the girl quickly, with a sudden
flush. "I have considered it more seriously than you may believe,
more, perhaps, than I ought."

"Than you ought?" he interrupted blankly.

"Yes," she said simply. "I mean that if it could ever have been
right to answer you as you wished, it would have been right all at
once; thinking would not alter it. I am sorry, chiefly, that I
allowed this--this procrastination; that I did not make you take my
decision that night, at L