"No, I do not want her flowers," he says, with a slight frown, pushing it away from him disdainfully. "It was a mere chance my getting it. Any other fellow in my place at the moment would have been quite as favored,--nay, beyond doubt more so. I will not stoop for it." With his dignity thus forced to the front, he walks the entire length of the hall, his arms folded determinedly behind him, until he reaches a door at the upper end. Here he pauses and glances back almost guiltily. Yes, it is still there, the poor, pretty yellow blossom that has been so close to her, now sending forth its neglected perfume to an ungrateful world. It is cruel to leave it there alone all night, to be trodden on, perhaps, in the morning by an unappreciative John or Thomas, or, worse still, to be worn by an appreciative James. Desecration! "'Who hesitates is lost,'" quotes Stafford, aloud, with an angry laugh at his own folly, and, walking deliberately back again, picks up the flower and presses it to his lips. "I thought that little speech applied only to us poor women," says a soft voice above him, as, to his everlasting chagrin, Cecil's mischievous, lovable face peers down at him from the gallery overhead. "Have another flower, Sir Penthony? You seem fond of them." She throws a twin-blossom to the one he holds on to his shoulder as she speaks with very accurate aim. "It was yours," stammers Sir Penthony, utterly taken aback. "_So_ it was,"--with an accent of affected surprise,--"which makes your behavior all the more astonishing. Well, do not stand there kissing it all night, or you will catch cold, and then--what _should_ I do?" "What?" "Die of grief, most probably." With a little mocking laugh. "Very probably. Yet you should pity me too, in that I have fallen so low as to have nothing better given me to kiss. I am wasting my sweetness on----" "Is it sweetness?" asks she, wickedly. At this they both laugh,--a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and a fear of interruption, and perhaps a dread of being so discovered, that adds a certain zest to their meeting. Then he says, still laughing, in answer to her words, "Try." "No, thank you." With a little _moue_. "Curiosity is not my besetting sin, although I could not resist seeing how you would treat my parting gift a moment ago. Ah!"--with a little suppressed laugh of the very fullest enjoyment,--"you cannot think what an interesting picture you made,--almost tragic. First you stalked away from my unoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand Spaniards; and then, when you had gone sufficiently far to make your return effective, you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were--let us say, for convenience sake--_myself_, devoured it with kisses. I assure you it was better than a play. Well,"--with a sigh,--"I won't detain you any longer. I'm off to my slumbers." "Don't go yet, Cecil. Wait one moment. I--have something to say to you."