as pretty an answer to prayer as a man
could reasonably hope for. Many historic vows had met with sadly less
lucky fulfilment.

So, after dinner the following evening, I suggested that we should for
once take a little walk up along the river-side; and when we were quiet
in the moonlight, dappling the lovers' path we were treading, and
making sharp contrasts of ink and silver down in the river-bed,--I
spoke.

"Sylvia," I said, plagiarising a dream which will be found in Chapter
IV.,--"Sylvia, I have sought you through the world and found you at
last; and with your gracious permission, having found you, I mean to
stick to you."

"What do you mean, silly boy?" she said, as an irregularity in the road
threw her soft weight the more fondly upon my arm.

"I mean, dear, that I want you to be my wife."

"Your wife? Not for worlds!--no, forgive me, I didn't mean that.
You're an awful dear boy, and I like you very much, and I think you're
rather fond of me; but--well, the truth is, I was never meant to be
married, and don't care about it--and when you think of it, why should
I?"

"You mean," I said, "that you are fortunate in living in a society
where, as in heaven, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage,
where in fact nobody minds whether you're married or not, and where
morals are very properly regarded as a personal and private matter--"

"Yes, that's what I mean," said Sylvia; "the people I care about--dear
good people--will think no more of me for having a wedding-ring, and no
less for my being without; and why should one put a yoke round one's
neck when nobody expects it? A wedding-ring is like a top-hat,--you
only wear it when you must--But it's very sweet of you, all the same,
and you can kiss me if you like. Here's a nice sentimental patch of
moonlight."

I really felt very dejected at this not of course entirely unexpected
rejection,--if one might use the word for a situation on which had just
been set the seal of so unmistakable a kiss; but the vision in my heart
seemed to smile at me in high and happy triumph. To have won Sylvia
would have been to have lost her. My ideal had, as it were, held her
breath till Sylvia answered; now she breathed again.

"At all events, we can go on being chums, can't we?" I said.

For answer Sylvia hummed the first verse of that famous song writ by
Kit Marlowe.

"Yes!" she said presently. "I will sing for you, dance for you,
and--perhaps--flirt with you; bu