“Yes; you’re never done, are you? even on Sundays when everybody else is resting.” No one could have resisted Marigold’s tone; it was not familiar, it was full of delightful sympathy. Alphonso smiled. He could have gone on listening to that voice indefinitely, so long as the subject was himself. “No; I’m afraid we’re never done. Now your life, I suppose, is one long holiday?” “No; I’ve been dressmaking ever since six o’clock. I came out because--oh! because of the sunshine, you know. I love it best of anything.” “Yes, I think you must have borrowed all this pretty hair from the sun.” “You said once you didn’t approve of it.” “When can that have been?” “The first night I saw you--when I begged the money off you.” “Yes, I remember.” And then Marigold laughed, and, wonder of wonders! he laughed too. “I like coming here,” said she; “you quite forget there are hundreds and thousands of people all round you. I wonder how it is the Temple is so very, very beautiful?” “The Serpent made it.” “Yes,” said she, a mystic kind of beauty creeping in her eyes, and she looked at him with reverence and awe, but with beauty uppermost. No man could have easily stood that glance of Marigold’s. It was as if she had set him on a pedestal, not too high, and worshipped him from not too far a distance--almost as if the golden hair fell on his feet and the soft lips kissed them. So felt the great High Priest, changed from last night into a man again, no more the frozen statue; and neither of them noticed the silence following, for in love, that kind as well as others, closer bonds are knit in silence than in any sparkling talk or thrilling conversation. And St Armand sketched them as they stood there, so oblivious were they of his presence--sketched them, laughing the while. But shortly another step sounded on the gravel, coming towards the archway; Marigold turned, St Armand looked up, the High Priest likewise. “Sacred Serpent! Barringcourt!” said the latter in electric accents. Marigold heard the old man at their feet give a low whistle, and saw him close the sketch-book quickly; and she herself felt a wave of faintness for the instant--something like little Patches spoke of, but perhaps from other causes than affected him. So they all met face to face--three on the one side, one the other. The High Priest hurried forward with outstretched hands. “Barringcourt! This is the greatest pleasure of my life, after your long absence!” Marigold, quick to see and note, detected the cold, contemptuous under-stare and the top graciousness in the doctor’s manner. “And one of the greatest pleasures in mine, Alphonso. We are met again!” And again Marigold, hearing the tone so hollow, yet the words so sweet, said to herself: “I’d rather be told to sweep the kitchen floor than be spoken to like that”; and another wave passed through her, this time of unaccountable anger, that he should speak to her lover so.