“Well--I should miss the streets, sir.” “Miss the streets! Merciful heavens! To what a pass has the baneful disease of town life brought a pure and unsophisticated soul! But you have been in the country this morning early--the hem of the country at any rate. Did the freshness, the silence, the fragrance around you say nothing to your heart?” “Well, no, sir. Where the growers are you don’t smell much else than manure; and there’s a steam pump always going fit to deafen you.” “Well, well! But you must have seen the real country. I have taken you myself to Bushey and Thames Ditton. Surely you must see that the streets are the quintessence of vulgarity, of artificiality, of hideousness, of ludicrous effort?” “If they’re as bad as that, sir, why do all the great ladies stay all the summer in ’em, when they might be in the country? Our little street ain’t much, for sure, but there’s a deal o’ neighbourliness in it; and I’m so used to listening for Sam’s growler rattlin’ home I don’t think sleep ’ud come to me without it.” “We really cannot take Sam and his cab into our wedded life,” remarks Bertram, with irritation; “and why will you say ‘sir,’ and not Wilfrid?” “Your Christian name would sound so cheeky, sir,” replies Annie. “I couldn’t bring myself to say it. You’re so different to me, sir. That’s what mother allus says: ‘Mr. Bertram’s got queer notions,’ says she; ‘but he was born of the quality, and quality he’ll be till he die, let him fuss and fad and fettle as much as ever he likes.’” Bertram is looking uneasily down the Mile: “Won’t your primroses wither in the sun?” “No; there’s the shade o’ the tree.” Bertram says to himself: “However shall I get rid of her? If Marlow should come back while she’s sitting here, or Fanshawe come out of his house!” (_Aloud._) “Dear Annie, if you won’t misunderstand me, I think we’d better not be seen sitting here together. Cæsar’s wife--no, I don’t mean that, I mean an Englishman’s betrothed--in fact, you know what I mean. It was very kind of you to send those violets yesterday, but it was a mistake--my rooms were full--people laughed.” “Oh, Mr. Bertram, I am sorry. It was silly, of course, now I think of it,” says the girl, as she rises and takes up the baskets. “Mr. Bertram, if you don’t like to be seen with me settin’ on this bench, how ever will you stand being seen with me all your life?” “You don’t comprehend,” replies Bertram, nervously. “That isn’t the question at all. I don’t want people to say coarse and rude things of you. Of my wife no one will ever dare to do so.” Annie hangs her head in silence for a minute; then murmurs: “Do you really love me, sir? Mother says as how it’s moonshine.”