lone to do their love-making, undisturbed. Their love-making was
of a very undemonstrative character. Enid sat in one comfortable
basket-chair, Hubert in another, at a yard's distance. Their
conversation went on in fragments, interspersed by long pauses filled up
by an orchestra of birds in the branches overhead.

"I do not remember her name exactly," said Enid. "The Tollemaches were
talking about her yesterday; they heard her in town last week. 'Cynthia'
something--'Cynthia,' I remember that, because it is such an uncommon
name."

"I suppose you mean Miss Cynthia West," said Hubert, after a very long
pause.

"Yes, 'Cynthia West'--that was the name. Have you heard her?"

"Yes."

"And do you think her very wonderful?"

"She is a remarkably fine singer."

"Oh, I hope we shall hear her when we next go up to London! Aunt Leo
wants me to stay with her."

"That will be very nice," said Hubert, bestirring himself a little.
"Then you will hear all the novelties. But I would not go just yet if I
were you, London has not begun to wake up again after its winter sleep."

"What a horrible place it must be!" said Enid, with a little shiver.

"You think so? It is my home."

There was an accent in his voice which impressed Enid painfully. She
clasped her hands rather tightly together in her lap, and said, after
another pause, in a lower tone--

"I dare say I should grow fond of it if I lived there."

"As you will do, in time," said Hubert, with a smile. "You must try to
believe that you will soon be as absorbed in town-life as every other
woman; that concerts and theatres and balls will make up for green
fields and the songs of birds; that men are more interesting than brooks
and flowers; that to shop and to gossip are livelier occupations than
visiting the poor and teaching little Dick. Don't you think you can
imagine it?"

She shook her head.

"I can't imagine it; but, if I had to do it, I would try. I don't think
your picture is very attractive, if I may say so, Hubert."

"Don't you, dear? Why not?"

"It sounds so unreal. Do women pass their lives in that frivolous, vapid
way?"

"Not all of them, of course. There are women who have work to do," said
Hubert, looking idly into the distance, as if he were thinking of some
one or something that he could not see.

"Oh, yes, I know--working women--professional women--women," said Enid,
with an innocent smile, "like Cynthia West."

Hubert gave a slight start; the