goes to his heart.

"Joyce! what is it?" says he, quickly. "Here, come and sit down. No, I
don't want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it a
little, that is all."

"Yes, that is all!" She sinks heavily into the seat he has pointed out
to her, and lets her head fall back against the cushions. "However, when
you come to think of it, that means a great deal," says she, smiling
languidly.

"There, don't talk," says he. "What is the good of having a friend if
you can't be silent with him when it so pleases you. That," laughing,
and arranging the cushions behind her head, "is one for you and two for
myself. I, too, pine for a moment when even the meagre 'yes' and 'no'
will not be required of me."

"Oh, no," shaking her head. "It is all for me and nothing for yourself!"
she pauses, and putting out her hand lays it on his sleeve. "I think,
Felix," says she, softly, "you are the kindest man I ever met."

"I told you you felt overdone," says he, laughing as if to hide the
sudden emotion that is gleaming in his eyes. He presses the hand resting
on his arm very gently, and then replaces it in her lap. To take
advantage of any little kindness she may show him now, when it is plain
that she is suffering from some mental excitement, grief or anger, or
both, would seem base to him.

She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, and lying back in her
soft couch stares with unseeing eyes at the bank of flowers before her.
Behind her tall, fragrant shrubs rear themselves, and somewhere behind
her, too, a tiny fountain is making musical tinklings. The faint, tender
glow of a colored lamp gleams from the branches of a tropical tree close
by, and round it pale, downy moths are flitting, the sound of their
wings, as every now and then they approach too near the tempting glow
and beat them against the Japanese shade, mingling with the silvery fall
of the scented water.

The atmosphere is warm, drowsy, a little melancholy. It seems to seize
upon the two sitting within its seductive influence, and threatens to
waft them from day dreams into dreams born of idle slumber. The rustle
of a coming skirt, however, a low voice, a voice still lower whispering
a reply, recalls them both to the fact that rest, complete and perfect,
is impossible under the circumstances.

A little opening among the tall evergreens upon their right shows them
Lord Baltimore once more, but this time not alone. Lady Swansdown is
with him.