woodland path, and confronts
him curiously: "Now, do you _think_ I could like it? I don't, then! I
perfectly hate it! The perpetual over and over again, the knowledge
that to-morrow will always be as to-day, the feeling that one can't
get away from it, is maddening. And then there are the mistakes, and
the false notes, and everything. What a question to ask me! Did any
one ever like it, I wonder!"

There is some passion, and a great deal of petulance, in her tone; and
her lovely flower-like face flushes warmly, and there is something
besides in her expression that is reproachful. Dorian begins to hate
himself. How could he have asked her such a senseless question? He
hesitates, hardly knowing what to say to her, so deep is his sympathy;
and so, before he has time to decide on any course, she speaks again.

"It is so monotonous," she says, wearily. "One goes to bed only to get
up again; and one gets up with no expectation of change except to go
to bed again."

"'One dem'd horrid grind,'" quotes Mr. Branscombe, in a low tone. He
is filled with honest pity for her. Instinctively he puts out his
hand, and takes one of hers, and presses it ever so gently. "Poor
child!" he says, from his heart. To him, with her baby face, and her
odd impulsive manner, that changes and varies with every thought, she
is merely a child.

She looks at him, and shakes her head.

"You must not think me unhappy," she says, hastily. "I am not that. I
was twice as unhappy before I came here. Everybody now is so kind to
me,--Clarissa, and the Redmonds, and"--with another glance from under
the long lashes--"you, and----Mr. Hastings."

"The curate?" says Dorian, in such a tone as compels Miss Broughton,
on the instant, to believe that he and Mr. Hastings are at deadly
feud.

"I thought you knew him," she says, with some hesitation.

"I have met him," returns he, "generally, I think, on tennis-grounds.
He can run about a good deal, but it seems a pity to waste a good bat
on him. He never hits a ball by any chance, and as for serving--I
don't think I swore for six months until the last time I met him."

"Why, what did he do?"

"More than I can recall in a hurry. For one thing, he drank more tea
than any four people together that ever I knew."

"Was that all? I see no reason why any one should be ashamed of liking
tea."

"Neither do I. On the contrary, one should be proud of it. It betrays
such meekness, such simplicity, such contentment. I