ser.

"You have done more than that without knowing it--_petite amie_," he
said, yielding himself, as always, to the witchery of the moment. "It
is your doing that I have achieved an inspired picture. It is your
doing that I want this week in Arcadia to be an idyll we shall neither
of us forget--an idyll of sunlight, moonshine, and blessed freedom from
_les convenances_. No past--no future--only the present; and in it two
spirits tuned to one key. That is the secret of perfect enjoyment."

She shook her head.

"I don't quite understand. It sounds too fantastic. The past and the
future are there always. One can't get rid of them."

"But one can shut the door on them when they threaten to disturb the
present, which is the great reality after all."

"Can one? You seem to have a talent for shutting doors!"

"A convenient talent; worth cultivating! You may take my word for it."

Something in the statement or its manner of utterance jarred, ever so
slightly,--threatened to break the charm that held her.

"Dangerously convenient," she murmured, in gentle reproof.

"Little Puritan! What a narrow track you walk upon. Hardly room on it
for two abreast. Is there?"

The last words were almost a whisper. He pressed nearer, bringing his
face close to hers. At the same moment she felt a light touch on her
shoulder, and drawing back to escape the disturbing eloquence of his
eyes, she discovered the presence of his encircling arm. The discovery
brought her to her feet--flushed, palpitating, aquiver with anger at
this first shadow of insult to her maidenhood.

"Will you take me in again, please?" she said quietly, and the request
savoured of command. For her gentle nature was founded on a rock; and
a very little below the unresisting surface one came upon adamant, pure
and simple. But the unabashed Frenchman caught one of her hands, and
crushed it against his lips.

"_Petite amie_--forgive me! I was overbold. I am not fit to touch the
hem of your dress. But one is only flesh and blood; and you . . . say
you are not angry with me, in your heart . . . ."

She drew her hand away decisively; and with unconscious cruelty rubbed
the back of it against her dress, as if to remove a stain.

"I am angry--I have a right to be angry," she answered in the same
toneless voice. "And if you will not come in with me, I shall go
alone."

He rose then; and they crossed the enchanted courtyard together--a
clear foot of