'And the moonlight picnic?' cried Maud, suddenly conscious of the necessity of concealing a feeling which she would not for the world have had Desvoeux suspect, namely, that Sutton's absence would be to her a calamity which would go far to render balls and picnics alike a matter of indifference. 'Yes,' Desvoeux said, with bitter vehemence; 'life is sometimes too unendurably disagreeable, and things go so provokingly as one does not want them. And we were just having such a happy time! And then, I suppose, to make our farewell the sadder, you have chosen this morning to look your loveliest. As for me, the only bits of life I care about any longer are those I spend with you.' 'And with Mrs Vereker,' cried Maud. 'Come, Mr. Desvoeux, confess, now, have you not been there just this minute saying the very same thing to her? I'll ask her this afternoon and we will compare notes as to our adieux!' 'Profane idea!' said Desvoeux. 'But you are always mocking. You know I care a great deal more about you than you do about me.' 'Impossible,' cried Maud. 'Did I not tell you just now that I was broken-hearted about the picnic? I meant to sit by the waterfall and make you sing us "Spirito Gentil" in the moonlight. It is a cruel disappointment.' 'You are very unkind and very heartless,' said Desvoeux in no mood for banter. 'Come, come,' said Maud, 'do not be cross; we will not quarrel just as we are parting.' 'Well, then, be serious.' 'I am serious,' said the other; 'and, seriously, I am sorry that we are to lose you. Poor fellow!' 'Give a poor fellow a present,' said Desvoeux, beseechingly; 'that cherry riband that binds the loveliest neck in the world.' 'No, I won't,' said Maud; 'it cost me two rupees only the day before yesterday. There, you may have this rose. Take it, take it, and remember----' 'You are enough to drive a fellow mad,' said Desvoeux. 'Who will be the lucky man to find out where your heart is, and whether you have got one?' Then Desvoeux cantered off and Maud retired to her bedroom, locked herself in, threw herself on a couch and indulged in the unusual luxury of a thoroughly good cry. Sutton, quite unconsciously, had made great advances in the occupation of her heart. He had been constantly with her and Felicia; and the more Maud saw of other people, the more convinced she became that he was the paragon of men and with him the only chance of happiness for her. And now he would come back presently, Maud knew, and say a kind, feeling farewell to Felicia and a word or two of politeness to her, and go away on his expedition and take all the sunshine of existence with him, and never have a suspicion of the aching heart he left behind and of the treasure of devotion waiting for him if he chose to have it. Surely there must be something wrong in the constitution of a world where such woes could come to pass.