“Do you? Life itself is coarse, and I fancy that a certain amount of that quality is necessary to happiness in the world. After all, the flesh rules here and not the spirit,”—and again he looked first at the marble Aphrodite, then at the girl beneath it. “We are born of the flesh, we are flesh, and all our affections and instincts partake of it.” “I do not agree with you at all,” Emma answered, with some warmth. “We are born of the spirit: that is the reality; the flesh is only an accident, if a necessary accident. When we allow it to master us, then our troubles begin.” “Perhaps; but it is rather a pervading accident for many of us. In short, it makes up our world, and we cannot escape it. While we are of it the most refined among us must follow its routine—more or less. A day may come when that routine will be different, and our desires, aims and objects will vary with it, but it is not here or now. “Everything has its season, Miss Levinger, and it is useless to try to escape from the facts of life, for at last in one shape or another they overtake us, who, strive as we may, can very rarely defy our natures.” Emma made no answer, though she did not look convinced, and for a while they remained silent. “My father tells me that you are coming to see us,” she said at last. “Yes; he kindly asked me. Do you wish me to come?” “Of course I do,” she answered, colouring faintly. “It will be a great change to see a stranger staying at Monk’s Lodge. But I am afraid that you will find it very dull; we are quite alone, at this time of year there is nothing on earth to do, unless you like bird-nesting. There are plenty of wild fowl about, and I have rather a good collection of eggs.” “Oh, I have no doubt that I shall amuse myself,” he answered. “Don’t you think that we had better be going back? They must have had enough of each other by this time.” Making no answer, Emma rose and walked across the conservatory, Henry following her. At the door, acting on a sudden impulse, she stopped suddenly and said, “You do really mean to come to Monk’s Lodge, do you not, Captain Graves?” And she looked up into his face. “If you wish it,” he answered in a low voice. “I have said that I do wish it,” she replied, and turning led the way into the drawing-room. Meanwhile another conversation had taken place in the library, where Sir Reginald and Mr. Levinger were seated. “I think that you are to be very much congratulated on this engagement, Graves,” said his companion. “Of course the young man is not perfect: he has faults, and obvious ones; but your daughter knows what she is about, and understands him, and altogether in the present state of affairs it is a great thing for you.” “Not for me—not for me,” answered Sir Reginald sadly.