She moved across the grass, which even the light of the moon showed not yet to have settled into smooth unbroken turf, and sat down on a stone bench in a niche of yew. The separate trees of which it was composed were as large as could have been safely transplanted, but they had not yet come together, and were not tall enough to create the effect of seclusion, except in the eye of faith. Caroline laughed again. "It _ought_ to be rather romantic," she said, "but I'm afraid it isn't quite yet." "I should think any garden romantic with you in it," said the young man, taking his seat by her side. "Thanks," she said lightly. "I do feel that I fit in. But I think you had better wait a year or two to see how all this is going to fit _me_. Come down for Whitsuntide in three years' time, when the hedges have grown up. Then I will sit here and make a real picture for you." She made an entrancing picture as it was, her white frock revealing the grace of her slim body, the moon silvering her pretty fair hair and resting on the delicate curves of her cheek and her neck. The yews were tall enough to give her their sombre background, and a group of big trees behind them helped out the unfinished garden picture. "It has altered you, you know, already," said Francis, rather unexpectedly. "What has altered me? Living in a garden? That's what I've been doing for the last few weeks." "Yes. Living in a garden. Living in the country. You're awfully sweet as a country girl, Caroline." "A dewy English girl. That's what B and I said we should be when we came down here. I'm awfully glad you've seen it so soon. Thanks ever so much, Francis." There was a slight pause. Then the young man said in his quiet well-bred voice: "I've never been quite sure whether I was in love with you or not. Now I know I am, and have been all along."