r my peace of mind, anyhow."

"That tells me nothing. I am not to know any more?"

"You are to know what you please."

"Well," she said, "I please to forget it. Now I had better tell you
how much I love Martley. James says that the house is perfect in its
way; but I say that you have done justice to the site, and think it
higher praise."

"It is. I'm much obliged to you. The problem was--not to enhance the
site, for that was out of the question; rather to justify the
impertinence of choosing to put any building there. Because of course
you see that any house is an impertinence in a forest."

"Yes, of course--but not yours."

Urquhart shrugged. "I'm not afraid of your flatteries, because I
know," he said. "The most that can be said for me is that I haven't
choked it up with scarlet and orange flowers. There's not a geranium
in the place, and I haven't even a pomegranate in a tub, though I
might."

"Oh, no," she said warmly, "there's nothing finicky about your
garden--any more than there is about you. There was never such a man
of direction--at least I never met one." The moment she had said it
she became embarrassed; but he took no notice. His manner was perfect.
They returned by the lake, and stayed there a while to watch Nugent
trying to catch trout. The rest of the day she spent in Urquhart's
company, who contrived with a good deal of ingenuity to have her to
himself while appearing to be generally available. After dinner,
feeling sure of him, she braved the tale-bearing woods and
nightingales vocal of her sweet unease. There was company on this
occasion, but she felt certain it would not have been otherwise had
they been retired with the night. She was thoughtful and quiet, and
really her heart was full of complaining. He was steadily cheerful,
and affected a blunt view of life at large.

She did not look forward to leaving him on the morrow, and as good as
said so. "I have been enchanted here," she said, "and hate the thought
of London. But James won't hear of Wycross in June. He loves the
world."

Urquhart said, "What are you going to do in August? Wycross?"

"No, we never go there in August. It's too hot-- And there's
Lancelot. A boy must have excitement. I expect it will come to my
taking him to the sea, unless James consents to Scotland. We used to
do that, but now--well, he's bored there."

He was looking at her, she felt, though she couldn't see him. "Did you
ever go to Norway?" She shook her he