see I shall be
wanted at my post for a little while longer, because--here is Mr. Gower,
at last!"

The "at last" is intolerably flattering, though it is a question if the
new comer hears it. He is crossing over the soft grass; his hat is in
his hand; his eyes dark and smiling. He looks glad, expectant, happy.

"What superfluous surprise," says Roger to Dulce, with even a broader
sneer than his last. "He always _is_ here, isn't he!"

"Yes; isn't it good of him to come," says Miss Blount, with a suspicious
dulness--Stephen has not yet come quite close to them. "We are always so
wretchedly stupid here, and he is so charming, and so good to look at,
and always in such a perfect temper!" As she finishes her sentence she
turns her large eyes full on her _fiance_.

Roger, muttering something untranslatable between his teeth, moves away,
and then Gower comes up, and Dulce gives him her hand and her prettiest
smile, and presently he sinks upon the grass at her feet, and lies there
in a graceful position that enables him to gaze without trouble upon her
piquante face. He is undeniably handsome, and is very clean-limbed, and
has something peculiar about his smile that takes women as a rule.

"How d'ye do?" he says to Roger presently, when that young man comes
within range, bestowing upon him a little nod. Whereon Roger says the
same to him in a tone of the utmost _bonhommie_, which, if hypocritical,
is certainly very well done, after which conversation once more flows
smoothly onwards.

"What were you doing all day?" asks Dulce of the knight at her feet,
throwing even kinder feeling than usual into her tone, as she becomes
aware that Roger's eyes are fixed upon her.

"Wishing myself here," replies Gower, with a readiness that bespeaks
truth.

"What a simple thing to say," murmurs Dulce, with a half-smile, glancing
at him from under her long lashes. "But how difficult to believe. After
all," with a wilful touch of coquetry, "I don't believe you ever do mean
anything you say."

"Don't you," says Gower, with an eagerness that might be born of either
passion or amusement. "You wrong me then. And some day--some day,
perhaps, I shall be able to prove to you that what I say I mean." Then,
probably, the recollection of many things comes to him, and the quick,
warm light dies out of his eyes, and it is with an utter change of tone
and manner he speaks next.

"Now, tell me what you were doing all day?" he says, lightly.

"Not