"I'm tremendous friends with him, really," he says, "if you would only try to believe it. I think him no end of a good fellow, if slightly impossible at times. When he recovers from the attack of insanity that is at present rendering him very obnoxious, I shall be delighted to let by-gones be by-gones. But until then----" "You will tell him of your engagement?" "Perhaps: if occasion offers." "No, not perhaps. Go to-day, this very evening, and tell him of it." "Oh, I can't, really, you know," says Mr. Branscombe, who always finds a difficulty in refusing any one anything. "You must,"--with decision: "he surely deserves so much at your hands." "But how few of us get our deserts!" says Dorian, still plainly unimpressed. "Well, then, I think you should speak of it openly to him,--if only for Georgie's sake." "For her sake?" He colors again, and bites his lips. "If you really think I owe it to her, of course I shall do it, however distasteful the task may be; though I cannot see how it will benefit her." "He is your uncle; you will wish your own family to receive her?" "I dare say you are right," says Branscombe, with a shrug. "People always are when they suggest to you an unpleasant course." "What is unpleasant now? How can there be anything to distress any one on such a heavenly day as this?" cries the soft petulant voice he loves so well, calling to them across a flower-bed near. Springing over it, she comes up to the window, and, leaning her elbows on the sill close to him, laughs gayly up into his face. "There shall be nothing to distress you, at all events, my 'amber witch,'" returns he, gayly, too. "Come, show me once more these gardens you love so well." * * * * * A promise with Dorian is not made of pie-crust: though sorely against his will, he goes up to Hythe after dinner to acquaint his uncle formally of his approaching marriage. The evening is calm and full of rest and quiet, a fit ending to the perfect day that has gone before: "The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night-- The sweet June night--is like a curtain drawn. The dark lanes know no faintest sound, and white The pallid hawthorn lights the smooth-bleached lawn; The scented earth drinks from the silent skies Soft dews, more sweet than softest harmonies." Going through the woods that lie upon his right, he walks silently onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift-coming night, yet too restless in mind to take in all its charms that are rich enough to satisfy a hungry soul. A soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the young and tender branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the "feathery people of mid-air" are preening their downy plumage and murmuring sleepy hymns ere sinking to their rest.