"They are pretty, but not very valuable," she continued--"given to me by the children I have been teaching. If you do not like them, Earle, I will throw them into the Arno one by one." "Why do that, if the little children gave them to you? I am no judge of precious stones, but looking at the light in those, I should have thought them real." "Do you know that if they were real they would be worth hundreds and hundreds of pounds? You must think an English governess in Italy coins money." He looked admiringly at her handsome dress, although too inexperienced to know its real value. "This is my best dress, too," she said. "And do you know, Earle, that as I put it on I said to myself, I do not look amiss in this; I wish Earle could see me." "Did you really?" he asked, a flush of delight rising to his brow. It is so very easy to deceive a generous and trusting man, that one might almost be ashamed to do it. "Did you, Doris? Then, although you ran away from me so cruelly, you did like me, after all?" "Oh, Earle, what a question! Like you? Did you not feel sure that when I had seen something of the world--had allayed the fever of excitement--that I should return to you? Did you not feel sure of it?" No such thought or intention had ever been in her mind, still she wished to make the best of matters. It was no use for her to return to England unless she was the best of friends with him. A few untruths, more or less, did not trouble her in the least, only provided that he believed them. "I never thought so," was his simply reply. "I believed you had left me forever, Doris." "You must never judge me by the same rule you would apply to others, Earle. I told you so from the beginning of our acquaintance, I tell you so now." "I believe it," he replied. Yet, although he saw that she wished to make friends, and was flattered by the belief, he could not all at once forget the anguish and sorrow she had caused him. Then she took out a little jeweled watch that she wore. Time was flying. In one short half-hour Lord Charles would be back with her flowers and news of the opera-box. "How angry he will be," she said to herself, "to think that any one should thwart his sovereign will and pleasure. He will look in every pretty nook by the river-bank, then he will go into the house and ask, 'Have you seen Mrs. Conyers?' And no one will be able to answer him. I should like to be here to see the sensation. Then he will be sulky, and finally come to the conclusion that I have given him up, and have run away from him."