“Fallen in love! No, he is not that kind of man. He is as earnest and enthusiastic as a mediæval monk. We have all been carried away by his eloquence. He preaches what people call awakening sermons; and I fear they have been too agitating for Isola. She insists on hearing him; she hangs upon his words; but his preaching has too strong an influence upon her mind--or upon her nerves. I have seen the tears streaming down her poor pale cheeks; I have seen her terribly overcome. She is too weak to bear that kind of strain. She is depressed all the rest of the day.” “She ought not to be allowed to hear such sermons. Take her to another church, where some dozy old bird will send her comfortably to sleep.” “I have tried to take her to the other church--you must not talk of a clergyman as a dozy old bird, sir--but she looked so unhappy at the mere idea of missing Father Rodwell’s sermons that I dare not press the matter. He comes to see us occasionally, and he is the cheeriest and pleasantest of men, nothing of the zealot or ascetic about him; so that I am in hopes his influence will be for good in the long run. How long shall you be able to stop at San Remo?” “Till the lady for whose sake I came shall take it into her head to leave the place. I have been thinking, Allegra,” putting his arm through hers, and pacing up and down the terrace, with the bright expanse of sea in front of them, and at their back the great curtain of hills encircling and defending them from the wintry world--“I have been thinking that Venice would be a charming place for you and me to spend next summer in--if--if--you meant six months instead of twelve for my probation--as I really think you must have done. We could be married on the first of June--such a pretty date for a wedding! So easy to remember! You would want to be married in Trelasco Church, of course; on our native soil. The church in which my great-grandfather was married, and in which I and all my race were christened! We could have the yacht at Marseilles ready to carry us off on our travels, through the delicious summer days and nights, all along this lovely coast, and away by Naples to the Adriatic. Allegra, why should we wait for the winter, the dreary winter, to begin our life journey? Let us begin it in the time of roses.” “Look, John!” cried Allegra, laughing, as she pointed to the hedge of red roses in front of them, and the clusters of creamy bloom hanging over the verandah. “The roses have been blooming ever since we came to Italy. It is always rose-time here. You remember our reading in the dedication of ‘To Leeward’ how Marion Crawford strewed his wife’s pathway with roses on Christmas Day at Sorrento. We can find a flowery land for our honeymoon at any season of the year.” “But why wait a year? Can you not prove me trusty and true in less than a year?” “You are so impatient,” she said, plucking a handful of roses, and scattering the petals at her feet. “A year is so short a time.”