billions?' Think of
that! She said: '_Or is it billions?_' in exactly the same tone of
voice as she might have said of the bonnet she had on: 'I bought it, at
a sale, for elevenpence three farthings, _or was it a shilling_?'"

"Oh, Boy, you really _are_ naughty! I never connected you with
personal sarcasm."

"Yes, but that sort of woman shouldn't," complained the Boy. "And with
half Cambridge sitting listening. 'Millions, or is it billions?' Oh
lor!"

"Poor thing!" remarked Miss Charteris. "She could not have known that
she had in the audience a person who had only just avoided the drawback
to future enterprise, of being Senior Wrangler. Had she realized that,
she would have been more careful with her figures."

"Tease away!" said the Boy. "I don't care, now I am safe here. Only I
shan't tell you any more."

"I don't want to hear any more, Boy. I always enjoy appreciations,
even of things I do not myself appreciate. But non-appreciations do
not appeal to me. If a person has meant to be effective and proved
inadequate, or tried to do good and done harm, I would rather not know
it, unless I can help to put matters right. Have some more tea, Boy;
and then I want to talk to you myself. I have something rather special
to tell you."

The Boy stood up and brought his cup to the little table. When she had
filled it, he knelt on one knee beside her, his elbow on the arm of her
chair, and drank his tea there.

"I am sorry, dear," he said, presently. "I won't do it again. Perhaps
I listened wrong, because I was bored at being there at all. I say,
Christobel--it has just occurred to me--did you know my mother?"

The old garden was very still. A hush, as of the Paradise of God,
seemed suddenly to fall upon it. As the Boy asked his quiet question,
a spirit seemed to hover, between them and the green dome of mulberry
leaves above them, smoothing the Boy's tumbled hair, and touching the
noble brow of the woman the Boy loved; a gentle, watching, thankful
spirit--eternally remembering, and tenderly glad to be remembered. For
a few moments the silence was a silence which could not be broken. The
Boy lifted wondering eyes to the moving leaves. Christobel laid her
hand upon his, as it gripped her chair. An unseen voice seemed to
whisper to the Boy--not in the stern tones of the Church, but as an
eager, anxious, question: "Wilt thou--have--this woman--to be thy
wedded wife?" And silently the Boy replied: "