“Very, very odd; very strange and very pretty,” Johannah murmured. “It seems as if it ought to have some allegorical significance, though I can’t perceive one. It would be interesting to know what sort of real girl, if any, ended by becoming the owner of that hat. You weren’t shocked, were you?” she inquired of Madame Dornaye. “Not by the story. But the heat is too much for me,” said that lady, gathering up her knitting. “I am going to the house to make a siesta.” Will rose, as she did, and stood looking vaguely after her, as she moved away. Johannah nestled her head deeper in her cushion, and half closed her eyes. And for a while neither she nor her cousin spoke. A faint, faint breeze whispered in the tree-tops; now a twig snapped, now a bird dropped a solitary liquid note. For the rest, all was still summer heat and woodland perfume. Here and there the greensward round them, dark in the shadow of dense foliage, was diapered with vivid yellow by sunbeams that filtered through. “Oh, dear me,” Johannah sighed at last. “What is it?” Will demanded. “Here you are, silent as eternity again. Come and sit down—here—near to me.” She indicated a position with a lazy movement of her hand. He obediently sank upon the grass. “You’re always silent nowadays, when we’re alone,” she complained. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed that.” “Then you’re extremely unobservant. Directly we’re alone, you appear to lose the power of speech. You mope and moon, and gaze off at things beyond the horizon, and never open your mouth. One might suppose you had something on your mind. Have you? What is it? Confide it to me, and you can’t think how relieved you’ll feel,” she urged. “I haven’t anything on my mind,” said he. “Oh? Ah, then you’re silent with me because I bore you? You find me an uninspiring talk-mate? Thank you,” she bridled. “You know perfectly well that that’s preposterous nonsense,” answered Will. “Well, then, what is it? Why do you never talk to me when we’re alone?” she persisted. “But I do talk to you. I talk too much. Perhaps I’m afraid of boring you,” he said. “You know perfectly well that that’s a preposterous subterfuge,” said she. “You’ve got something on your mind. You’re keeping something back.” She paused for a second; then, softly, wistfully, “Tell me what it is, Will, please.” And she looked eagerly, pleadingly, into his eyes. He looked away from her. “Upon my word, there’s nothing to tell,” he said, but his tone was a little forced. She broke into a merry peal of laughter, looking at him now with eyes that were derisive. “What are you laughing at?” he asked. “At you, Will,” said she. “What else could you imagine?” “I’m flattered to think you find me so amusing.” “Oh, you’re supremely amusing. ’Refrain thou shalt; thou shalt refrain!’ Is that your motto, Will? If I were a man, I’d choose another. ’Be bold, be bold, and everywhere be bold!’ That should be my motto if I were a man.” “But as you’re a woman———” he began.