ling to do as she is told."

"And, meanwhile, what am I to do?"

"You! You are to make love to Sophy Macpherson. Do you not know that she
is the excuse for your having been asked here at all?"

"I don't like it, Beatrice," repeats her lover, gravely--not, however,
alluding to the duties relating to Miss Macpherson, which she had been
urging upon him. "Upon my life, I don't." He looks away moodily out of
the window. "I hate doing things on the sly. And, besides, I am a poor
man, and your parents are rich. I could not afford to support a wife at
present on my own income."

"All the more reason that we should wait," she interrupts, quickly.

"Yes; but I ought not to have spoken to you; I'd no business to steal
your heart."

"You did not steal it," she says, nestling up to his side. "I presented
it to you, free, gratis."

Where is the man who could resist such an appeal! Away went duty,
prudence, and every other laudable consideration to the winds; and
Herbert Pryme straightway became insanely and blissfully oblivious of his
own poverty, of Mr. Miller's wealth, and of everything else upon earth
and under the sun that was not entirely and idiotically delightful and
ecstatic.

"You will do as I tell you?" whispers Beatrice.

"Of course I will," answers her lover. And then there is a complete
stagnation of the power of speech on both sides for the space of five
minutes, during which the clock ticking steadily on at the far end of the
corridor has things entirely its own way.

"There is another couple who are happy," says Herbert Pryme, breaking the
charmed silence at length, and indicating, by a sign, two people who are
wandering slowly down the garden. Beatrice Miller, following the
direction of his eyes, sees Maurice Kynaston and Vera.

"Those two?" she exclaims. "Oh dear, no! They are not happy--not in our
way. Miss Nevill is engaged to his brother, you know."

"Umph! if I were Sir John Kynaston, I would look after my brother then."

"Herbert! what _can_ you mean?" cries Beatrice, opening her eyes in
astonishment. "Why, Captain Kynaston is supposed to be engaged to Mrs.
Romer; at any rate, she is desperately in love with him."

"Yes, everybody knows that: but is he in love with her?"

"Herbert, I am sure you must be mistaken!" persists Beatrice, eagerly.

"Perhaps I am. Never mind, little woman," kissing her lightly; "I only
said they looked happy. If you will take the trouble to remark them
through the d