So the week wore on, in simple pleasures which might have seemed tame and dull to those world-weary spirits of the Sir Charles Coldstream calibre, who have done everything, and found emptiness everywhere, but which were sweet and new to Beatrix Harefield. A faint bloom began to warm her clear olive cheek, the dark depths of her Italian eyes shone with a new light. Yet she had not forgotten Cyril Culverhouse, nor one drop in the bitter cup she had drained since her father’s death. One evening after dinner, while the golden glow was still warm in the west, Beatrix and her host found themselves alone together in the cloistered garden. Until this moment Kenrick had not said one word about his disappointed hopes. His conduct had been perfect. He had been full of flattering attentions for his young guest; he had anticipated her every wish, devoted every free moment of his day to paying her homage; but he had never put on the air of a lover, nor insinuated a hope that could alarm her with the idea that Culverhouse Castle was a trap in which she was to be caught unawares. He had his views and his hopes all the same, in spite of her unqualified rejection a few weeks ago. And now she had been a guest in his house nearly a fortnight, and she seemed happier and brighter than he had ever known her. His brief span of delight was nearly at an end. In a few days his guests would depart, the steamer would sail, and he must go back to the weary drudgery yonder under the dense blue of a Bengal sky--the early drill--the monotonous days--the narrow society--the blank sense of exile from all that is best and brightest in life. If the game were to be won ever, it must be won quickly. It may have been some soft influence in sky or earth, the magic of the hour, that moved him to take the awful plunge this evening. His chances of being quite alone with Beatrix were few, and this opportunity, which came by accident, might be the last. However it was, he resolved to cast the die. This time he told no long story about his love. He had said his say that March afternoon in the Vicarage library. He only took Beatrix by the hand as they stood idly side by side, looking down at the wallflowers and polyanthuses growing among the old gray stones--the capitals and bases of columns that had fallen long ago, and said earnestly,-- ‘Beatrix, I want you to be mistress of this place. I will not say another word about my love for you. I will not ask for your love. That, I hope and believe, would come to me in good time if you were my wife; for it would be the business of my life to win it. I want you to come and reign at Culverhouse. Let me be your steward--your servant.’