“I don’t think you will find any,” said Mrs. Eastwood, making her a sign to stay. But it was getting dark, and Nelly, who was perverse, pretended not to understand. Any pleasure she might have in the society of one of the two was neutralized by the presence of both, and perhaps there was even a thought in her mind that a young lover might take heart of grace and follow. In the conservatory her white-furred jacket and little flower-basket were lying on a chair. Before she could throw on the wrap Molyneux had joined her. “I think Railton has some business to talk about,” he said aloud, with a slight nod of concealed triumph to his adversary; “May I come upon the flower-gathering expedition? Gathering flowers by moonlight has quite a poetical sound.” “It is too cold to be poetical,” said Nelly. There had been just enough between this girl and boy to give them both a thrill of the heart when they went, out of sight and hearing, into the stillness of the garden, where, indeed, to tell the truth, few primroses were as yet to be found. It was one of those lovely nights of early spring which sometimes succeed a boisterous day. The wind had fallen with the evening. The sky in the west was still full of colour, a pink flush extending far into the blue. The gorgeous sunset clouds had broken up, but this great rose-tinted pavilion still stood, spreading out its film of lovely colour over the house. On the garden side there was a stretch of clear sky, untinged by this dispersing veil of glory; clear, somewhat cold, pale, and luminous, with one star set in the midst of it; and separated from this blue bit of heaven by billows of fleecy cloud, a soft, clear young moon in her first quarter. It was cold, but to think of cold was impossible with such a heaven above them--impossible, at least, for these two, who were young, and who were together. They went along under the trees for some time without saying anything, except a little exclamation about the beauty of the sky. “I am tired,” said Nelly at length; “I am so glad it is over. Calls are the stupidest of all things. If people would come in in the evening, as they do abroad--but English people will never understand.” “Your visitors were not all stupid, I think,” said Molyneux, warming with the heat of combat. “Oh no; Sir Alexis, for instance, was very amusing,” said Nelly, feeling by instinct what was coming, and defying her fate. “You seemed to think so,” said the young man, with the loftiest tone of disinterested comment. “And indeed I did think so; he is excellent company,” said the girl.