most probably." With a little mocking laugh.

"Very probably. Yet you should pity me too, in that I have fallen so
low as to have nothing better given me to kiss. I am wasting my
sweetness on----"

"Is it sweetness?" asks she, wickedly.

At this they both laugh,--a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and a
fear of interruption, and perhaps a dread of being so discovered, that
adds a certain zest to their meeting. Then he says, still laughing, in
answer to her words, "Try."

"No, thank you." With a little _moue_. "Curiosity is not my
besetting sin, although I could not resist seeing how you would treat
my parting gift a moment ago. Ah!"--with a little suppressed laugh of
the very fullest enjoyment,--"you cannot think what an interesting
picture you made,--almost tragic. First you stalked away from my
unoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand Spaniards; and
then, when you had gone sufficiently far to make your return effective,
you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were--let us
say, for convenience sake--_myself_, devoured it with kisses. I
assure you it was better than a play. Well,"--with a sigh,--"I won't
detain you any longer. I'm off to my slumbers."

"Don't go yet, Cecil. Wait one moment. I--have something to say to
you."

"No doubt. A short time since you said the same thing. Were I to stay
now you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it was
hanging over me; and--I hate being taken to task."

"I will not, I swear I will never again attempt to scold you about
anything, experience having taught me the futility of such a course.
Cecil, stay."

"Lady Stafford, if you please, Sir Penthony." With a tormenting smile.

"Lady Stafford then,--anything, if you will only stay."

"I can't, then. Where should I be without my beauty sleep? The bare
idea fills me with horror. Why, I should lose my empire. Sweet as
parting is, I protest I, for one, would not lengthen it until
to-morrow. Till then--farewell. And--Sir Penthony--be sure you dream of
me. I like being dreamed of by my----"

"By whom?"

"My slaves," returns this coquette of all coquettes, with a last
lingering glance and smile. After which she finally disappears.

"There is no use disguising the fact any longer,--I _have_ lost my
heart," groans Sir Penthony, in despair, as he straightway carries off
both himself and his cherished flowers to the shelter of his own room.

CHAPTER XIX.

"I'll tell thee