one of Kate Greenaway's charming
impersonations.

"Good-morning," says Dorian, though, in truth, he hardly takes to
heart the full beauty of the fair morning that has been sent, so rapt
he is in joy at the very sight of her. "Going back to the vicarage
now?"

"Yes." She is smiling sweetly at him,--the little, kind, indifferent
smile that comes so readily to her red lips.

"Well, so am I," says Dorian, turning to accompany her.

Miss Broughton glances at him demurely.

"You can't want to go to the vicarage again?" she says, lifting her
brows.

"How do you know I have been there at all to-day?" says Dorian.

"Oh, because you are always there, aren't you?" says Georgie,
shrugging her shoulders, and biting a little flower she has been
holding, into two clean halves.

"As you know so much, perhaps you also know _why_ I am always there,"
says Branscombe, who is half amused, half offended, by her wilfulness.

"No, I don't," replies she, easily, turning her eyes, for the first
time, full upon his. "Tell me."

She is quite calm, quite composed; there is even the very faintest
touch of malice beneath her long lashes. Dorian colors perceptibly. Is
she coquette, or unthinking, or merely mischievous?

"No, not now," he says, slowly. "I hardly think you would care to
hear. Some day, if I may--. What a very charming hat you have on
to-day!"

She smiles again,--what true woman can resist a compliment--and
blushes faintly, but very sweetly, until all her face is like a pale
"rosebud brightly blowing."

"This old hat?" she says, with a small attempt at scorn and a very
well got-up belief that she has misunderstood him: "why, it has seen
the rise and fall of many generations. You can't mean _this_ hat?"

"Yes, I do. To me it is the most beautiful hat in the world, no matter
how many happy generations have been permitted to gaze upon it. It is
yours!"

"Oh, yes; I bought it in the dark ages," says Miss Broughton,
disdaining to notice the insinuation, and treating his last remark as
a leading question. "I am glad you like it."

"Are you? I like something else, too: I mean your voice."

"It is too minor,--too discontented, my aunt used to say."

"Your aunt seems to have said a good deal in her time. She reminds me
of Butler's talker: 'Her tongue is always in motion, though very
seldom to the purpose;' and again, 'She is a walking pillory, and
punishes more ears than a dozen standing ones.' But I wasn't talking
exactl