Edith sat quite still with her hands in her lap; there was something expectant in her appearance; it seemed part of the general hush. The wind had dropped suddenly and the tiny village lay embosomed on quivering water lines. Edith knew who was coming towards her, as flowers know the quickening soft rain of spring, and as the ocean knows the dominance of the tides. “You’ve got an awfully jolly corner,” said Lestrange rather awkwardly. “There are so many awfully jolly corners here,” said Edith. Then she smiled at him, the tender smile of a woman who laughs in secret triumph at the man she loves; she lets him think he is concealing his purpose from her, but she smiles. “I wish you weren’t going away to-morrow,” Lestrange began. He thought he was leading up to his goal with extraordinary skill and subtlety. “Must you really?” Edith hesitated; he would have to put it better than that. “I think my aunt has made all her arrangements,” she said. Then she looked away towards the lake over his shoulder. “I shall be sorry to leave--all this,” she murmured quietly. “I don’t see why you can’t stay with me,” said Lestrange, sitting down on the seat beside her. “I mean always.” He was certainly not putting it very well. Edith tried to believe that he was; she wanted to believe it. She looked at him, and her lips quivered. She was not an emotional woman; he had taken good care to find that out, but her dark eyes looked strange and stormy. She seemed as if she was feeling something strongly, almost more than she could bear. “Do you want me very much?” she murmured. Well, of course he wanted her. If you ask a woman to marry you, you must want her unless you are a young fool under the influence of glamour. There was no glamour. Horace had never pretended in his life, and he did not pretend now. He simply said: “It would make me very happy if you would be my wife, Edith.” “I should like so much to make you very happy,” said Edith. Then, suddenly, inconsequently, and very foolishly, she burst into tears. “Don’t, my dear--don’t,” he exclaimed hurriedly. He tried to take her hands from her face, but she would not let him. He looked at her in bewilderment; she shook with these astonishing sobs; and she was a most sensible woman, and thirty. He could not understand her. He kissed the clenched hands which covered her face, and almost as suddenly the sobs ceased. She drew in her breath with a quick sound. He walked to the balustrade and began to whistle. They were in a very secluded part of the gardens, but one never knew. No! fortunately there was no one in sight. What an extraordinary, lovely scene it was! Perhaps Edith would stop crying soon. She did; she brushed the tears from her eyes and laughed. “Oh, how silly you must think me!” she said. “And I’m thirty--you know I’m thirty?” “I think this is the third time that you have told me you are,” cried Horace. He came and sat down beside her again. She did not make him feel uncomfortable any more.