ive in that way. She is such a very child. I don't suppose she
understands what passion means. She has the gaiety of a lark, and the
innocence. She is always soaring upwards, which is so beautiful."

"I don't know that there is much soaring upwards in bagatelle."

"Nor in Jack De Baron, perhaps. But we must take all that as we find
it. Of course Mary will have to amuse herself. She will never live such
a life as your sisters live at Manor Cross. The word that best
describes her disposition is--gay. But she is not mischievous."

"I hope not."

"Nor is she--passionate. You know what I mean." He did know what she
meant, and was lost in amazement at finding that one woman, in talking
of another, never contemplated the idea that passion could exist in a
wife for her husband. He was to regard himself as safe, not because his
wife loved himself, but because it was not necessary to her nature to
be in love with any one! "You need not be afraid," she went on to say.
"I know Jack au fond. He tells me everything; and should there be
anything to fear, I will let you know at once."

But what had all this to do with the momentous occasion which had
brought him to Berkeley Square? He was almost beginning to be sore at
heart because she had not thrown herself into his arms. There was no
repetition of that "But you do love me?" which had been so very
alarming but at the same time so very exciting on the steps of the
Albert Memorial. And then there seemed to be a probability that the
words which he had composed with so much care at his club would be
altogether wasted. He owed it to himself to do or to say something, to
allude in some way to his love and hers. He could not allow himself to
be brought there in a flurry of excitement, and there to sit till it
was time for him to go, just as though it were an ordinary morning
visit. "You bade me come," he said, "and so I came."

"Yes, I did bid you come. I would always have you come."

"That can hardly be; can it?"

"My idea of a friend,--of a man friend, I mean, and a real friend--is
some one to whom I can say everything, who will do everything for me,
who will come if I bid him and will like to stay and talk to me just as
long as I will let him; who will tell me everything, and as to whom I
may be sure that he likes me better than anybody else in the world,
though he perhaps doesn't tell me so above once a month. And then in
return----"

"Well, what in return?"

"I should think