"I am sorry to see you _ennuyed_ where everything seems conspiring to promote your happiness. Can I do nothing to further that end?" Her large eyes look up at him a moment in grave surprise at his fretful tone. Then she says to herself in apology for him: "He is old, and I have heard that old people become irritated very easily." "Pray do not trouble yourself over my thoughtless words, sir," she says, aloud. "I am tired--that is all. Perhaps I have danced too much." "It was of that subject I wished to speak with you when I brought you out here," he answers, abruptly. "Are you very fond of the waltz, Bonnibel?" "I like it quite well;" this after a moment's study. "There is something dreamy, intoxicating, almost delightful in the music and the motion." A spasm of jealousy contracts his heart. He speaks quickly and with a labored breath. "I have never waltzed in my life, and cannot, of course, enter into the feelings of those who have, but I can see what I am about to ask may be a great sacrifice to you." She glances up inquiringly into his face, but he will not meet her eyes. "Bonnibel, I want you to give up waltzing altogether--will you do it?" he asks, bruskly. "Give up waltzing?" she echoes, in surprise. "Is not that a very sudden notion, Colonel Carlyle? I did not know you harbored any objections to the Terpsichorean art." "I do not in the abstract," he answers, evasively. "But you will pardon me for saying that I consider it exceedingly indelicate and improper for a married woman to dance with any man but her husband. That is why I have asked you to give it up for my sake." "Do other people think the same way, sir?" she inquires timidly. "All right-minded people do," he answers firmly, quite ignoring the fact that he is a perfectly new proselyte to his boldly announced conviction of the heinousness of the waltz. Silence falls between them for a little time. They have stopped walking and stand leaning against the piazza rails. Quite unconsciously she has pulled a flower from his elegant _boutonniere_, and is tearing it to pieces between her white-gloved fingers. She looks up as the last rose-leaf is shredded away between her restless fingers and asks, quietly: "Would it please you very much to have me give up waltzing, sir?" "More than words can express, my darling; are you going to make me happy by the promise?" "I am quite willing to please you, sir, when it is possible for me to do so," she answers quite gently; "you have my promise." "Bonnibel, you are an angel!" exclaims the enraptured colonel. He draws his arm around her an instant and bends to kiss her lips. "A thousand thanks for your generous self-sacrifice!" "You need not thank me, sir--it is not much of a sacrifice," she answers, dryly. She has drawn out her programme of the dances for the evening and is hurriedly consulting it.