Her coquetry, he said to himself, was preposterously pretty. They took another of the wide solitary paths that led under showery bamboos and quivering mahogany trees to where a stretch of water gave back the silence of the palms against the evening sky, and he dropped unconsciously into the stroll which is characterised everywhere as a lover’s. She glanced at him once or twice corroboratively, and said to herself that she had not been mistaken: he had real distinction—he was not of the herd. Then she picked up broad, crisp leaves with the point of her parasol and pondered while he talked of a possible walking tour in the Tyrol. Presently she broke in irrelevantly, hurriedly. “I like to do a definite thing in a definite way: don’t you?” “Certainly; yes, of course.” “Well; and that is why I waited till this afternoon to tell you—to tell you——” “To tell me——” “My dear Mr. Ancram, that I cannot possibly marry you.” She had intended to put it differently, more effectively—perhaps with a turn that would punish him for his part in making the situation what it was. But it seemed a more momentous thing than she thought, now that she came to do it; she had a sense that destiny was too heavy a thing to play with. He gave her an official look, the look which refuses to allow itself to be surprised, and said “Really?” in a manner which expressed absolutely nothing except that she had his attention. “I do not pretend,” she went on, impaling her vanity upon her candour, “that this will give you the slightest pain. I have been quite conscious of the relation between us” (here she blushed) “for a very long time; and I am afraid you must understand that I have reached this decision without any undue distress—_moi aussi_.” She had almost immediately regained her note; she was wholly mistress of what she said. For an instant Ancram fancied that the bamboos and the mahogany trees and the flaming hibiscus bushes were unreal, that he was walking into a panorama, and it seemed to him that his steps were uncertain. He was carrying his silk hat, and he set himself mechanically to smooth it round and round with his right hand as he listened. When she paused he could find nothing better to say than “Really?” again; and he added, “You can’t expect me to be pleased.” “Oh, but I do,” she returned promptly. “You are, aren’t you?” It seemed a friendly reminder of his best interests. It brought the bamboos back to a vegetable growth, and steadied Ancram’s nerves. He continued to smooth his hat; but he recovered himself sufficiently to join her, at a bound, in the standpoint from which she seemed inclined to discuss the matter without prejudice. “Since we are to be quite candid with each other,” he said, smiling, “I’m not sure.” “Your candour has—artistic qualities—which make it different from other people’s. At all events, you will be to-morrow: to-morrow you will thank Heaven fasting.”