le ice. She will get the experience whether she wants it or
not."

"Accurate observer! Are you trying to flatter me?"

"As how?"

"Do you think me pretty?"

"Even in the darkness----"

"Be serious. Do you?"

"Why, of course I do. I never saw a prettier girl in my life."

"Cross your heart?"

"Honest Injun--wish I may die!"

"Oh, well," said Clyde, "that's something. That's satisfactory. I'm
glad to extract something of a complimentary nature at last. You were
far better when I met you at the Wades'. You did pay me a compliment,
and you asked me for a rose. Please, sir, _do_ you remember asking a
poor girl for a rose?"

"I have it still."

"Truly?" A little throb of pleasure shot through her and crept into her
voice. "And you never told me!"

"I was to keep it as security. That was the bargain."

"But how much nicer it would be to say that you kept it because I gave
it to you. Are you aware that I made an exception in your favour by
doing so?"

"I thought so at the time," said Casey. "I expected a refusal. However,
I took a chance."

"And won. Are you sure that you have the rose still? And where among
your treasures do you keep it?"

He hesitated.

"You don't know where it is! That's just like a man. For shame!"

"You're wrong," Casey said quietly. "I keep it with some little things
that belonged to my mother."

She put out her hand impulsively. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I--I beg your
pardon!"

His strong fingers closed on hers. She did not withdraw her hand. He
leaned forward to look into her upraised eyes in the growing darkness.

"That seemed the proper place to keep it. I value your friendship very
much--too much to presume on it. We are at opposite ends of the
world--I'm quite aware of that. When this little holiday of yours is
over you'll go back to your everyday life and surroundings, and I don't
want you to take with you one regret or unpleasant memory."

"I don't know what I shall take," she replied gravely. "But I'm not at
all sure that I shall go back."

"I don't understand."

"Suppose," she said, "suppose that you were a moderately rich man, in
good health, young, without business or profession, without any special
talent; and that your friends--your social circle--were very much like
yourself. Suppose that your life was spent in clubs, country houses,
travel--that you had nothing on earth to do but amuse yourself, nothing
to look forward to but repetitions of the same amusement.