‘Stay--did you ever see such ivy as this?’ It was a mass of large, lustrous leaves, concealing a rotten trunk. Whilst Nancy looked on, Tarrant pulled at a long stem, and tried to break it away. ‘I must cut it.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You shall see.’ He wove three stems into a wreath. ‘There now, take off your hat, and let me crown you. Have I made it too large for the little head?’ Nancy, after a moment’s reluctance, unfastened her hat, and stood bareheaded, blushing and laughing. ‘You do your hair in the right way--the Greek way. A diadem on the top--the only way when the hair and the head are beautiful. It leaves the outline free--the exquisite curve that unites neck and head. Now the ivy wreath; and how will you look?’ She wore a dress of thin, creamy material, which, whilst seeming to cumber her as little as garments could, yet fitted closely enough to declare the healthy beauty of her form. The dark green garland, for which she bent a little, became her admirably. ‘I pictured it in my letter,’ said Tarrant, ‘the letter you never got.’ ‘Where is it?’ ‘Oh, I burnt it.’ ‘Tell me what was in it.’ ‘All sorts of things--a long letter.’ ‘I think that’s all nonsense about forgetting my address.’ ‘Mere truth. In fact, I never knew it.’ ‘Be so good as to tell me,’ she spoke as she walked on before him, ‘what you meant by your behaviour that morning before you went to London.’ ‘But how did I behave?’ ‘Very strangely.’ Tarrant affected not to understand; but, when she again turned, Nancy saw a mischievous smile on his face. ‘A bit of nonsense.--Shall I tell you?’ He stepped near, and suddenly caught both her hands,--one of them was trailing her sunshade. ‘Forgive me in advance--will you?’ ‘I don’t know about that.’ And she tried, though faintly, to get free. ‘But I will make you--now, refuse!’ His lips had just touched hers, just touched and no more. Rosy red, she trembled before him with drooping eyelids. ‘It meant nothing at all, really,’ he pursued, his voice at its softest. ‘A sham trial--to see whether I was hopelessly conquered or not. Of course I was.’ Nancy shook her head. ‘You dare to doubt it?--I understand now what the old poet meant, when he talked of bees seeking honey on his lady’s lips. That fancy isn’t so artificial as it seemed.’ ‘That’s all very pretty’--she spoke between quick breaths, and tried to laugh--‘but you have thrown my hat on the ground. Give it me, and take the ivy for yourself.’ ‘I am no Bacchus.’ He tossed the wreath aside. ‘Take the hat; I like you in it just as well.--You shall have a girdle of woodbine, instead.’ ‘I don’t believe your explanation,’ said Nancy. ‘Not believe me?’