this;
if I ever was, I have forgotten it. I am fond of pleasure--yes; but of
innocent pleasure. Pain is all one; but in pleasure, you know, there are
tremendous distinctions. Say to him that Gertrude is a folded flower and
that I am a serious man!"

Charlotte got up from her chair slowly rolling up her work. "We know
you are very kind to every one, Felix," she said. "But we are extremely
sorry for Mr. Brand."

"Of course you are--you especially! Because," added Felix hastily, "you
are a woman. But I don't pity him. It ought to be enough for any man
that you take an interest in him."

"It is not enough for Mr. Brand," said Charlotte, simply. And she stood
there a moment, as if waiting conscientiously for anything more that
Felix might have to say.

"Mr. Brand is not so keen about his marriage as he was," he presently
said. "He is afraid of your sister. He begins to think she is wicked."

Charlotte looked at him now with beautiful, appealing eyes--eyes into
which he saw the tears rising. "Oh, Felix, Felix," she cried, "what have
you done to her?"

"I think she was asleep; I have waked her up!"

But Charlotte, apparently, was really crying, she walked straight out
of the room. And Felix, standing there and meditating, had the apparent
brutality to take satisfaction in her tears.

Late that night Gertrude, silent and serious, came to him in the garden;
it was a kind of appointment. Gertrude seemed to like appointments.
She plucked a handful of heliotrope and stuck it into the front of
her dress, but she said nothing. They walked together along one of the
paths, and Felix looked at the great, square, hospitable house, massing
itself vaguely in the starlight, with all its windows darkened.

"I have a little of a bad conscience," he said. "I ought n't to meet you
this way till I have got your father's consent."

Gertrude looked at him for some time. "I don't understand you."

"You very often say that," he said. "Considering how little we
understand each other, it is a wonder how well we get on!"

"We have done nothing but meet since you came here--but meet alone. The
first time I ever saw you we were alone," Gertrude went on. "What is the
difference now? Is it because it is at night?"

"The difference, Gertrude," said Felix, stopping in the path, "the
difference is that I love you more--more than before!" And then they
stood there, talking, in the warm stillness and in front of the closed
dark house. "I have be