of her. So she babbled out the
whole pitiful story, waiting in a kind of terror to see contempt and
disgust awaken in his eyes.

But he merely said "I see--I see," very slowly, and his eyes were
kindly. He couldn't be angry with her, somehow; that pink-cheeked,
crinkly haired girl stood between them and shielded her. He was only
very, very sorry.

"And Kennaston?" he asked, after a little.

Mrs. Saumarez flushed. "Mr. Kennaston is a man of great genius," she
said, quickly. "Of course, Miss Hugonin is glad to assist him in
publishing his books--it's an honour to her that he permits it. They
have to be published privately, you know, as the general public isn't
capable of appreciating such dainty little masterpieces. Oh, don't
make any mistake, Billy--Mr. Kennaston is a very wonderful and very
admirable man."

"H'm, yes; he struck me as being an unusually nice chap," said Mr.
Woods, untruthfully. "I dare say they'll be very happy."

"Who?" Mrs. Saumarez demanded.

"Why--er--I don't suppose they'll make any secret of it," Billy
stammered, in tardy repentance of his hasty speaking. "Peggy told me
last night she had accepted him."

Mrs. Saumarez turned to rearrange a bowl of roses. She seemed to have
some difficulty over it.

"Billy," she spoke, inconsequently, and with averted head, "an honest
man is the noblest work of God--and the rarest."

Billy groaned.

"Do you know," said he, "I've just been telling the roses in the
gardens yonder the same thing about women? I'm a misogynist this
morning. I've decided no woman is worthy of being loved."

"That is quite true," she assented, "but, on the other hand, no man is
worthy of loving."

Billy smiled.

"I've likewise come to the conclusion," said he, "that a man's love is
like his hat, in that any peg will do to hang it on; also, in that the
proper and best place for it is on his own head. Oh, I assure you,
I vented any number of cheap cynicisms on the helpless roses! And
yet--will you believe it, Kathleen?--it doesn't seem to make me feel a
bit better--no, not a bit."

"It's very like his hat," she declared, "in that he has a new one
every year." Then she rested her hand on his, in a half-maternal
fashion. "What's the matter, boy?" she asked, softly. "You're always
so fresh and wholesome. I don't like to see you like this. Better
leave phrase-making to us phrase-mongers."

Her voice rang true--true, and compassionate, and tender, and all that
a woman's voi