She had walked farther into the perfumed bower, and was now standing in the searching noonday light that was powerless to reveal a single flaw in her loveliness. She looked like one of the faintly-rose camellias on a near-by bush--surely made from the same cool velvet as her little face. She inclined her head graciously--the “Gamin” was certainly growing up in the social amenities. “You will not think me altogether indiscreet--I hope,” she questioned, in a suddenly crisp-cut voice he had never heard her use before, and there was a quaint little assumption of solicitude as she went on, “if I reask where you intend to spend the summer?” Basil’s spirit was by this time in sad confusion, but he must answer her, and yet he could not bring himself to admit that it would be in a place far removed from their beloved haunts. An automatic second-self, doubtless summoned by the puzzling emergency, spoke for him. “I think,” he said, slowly, “I might safely assert that I do not know as yet.” She gave a light little laugh, and appeared to ponder for a moment. “I”--there was the briefest suspension--“I am very glad you do not know as yet. Because it may turn out to be in Brittany!” “That was a near thing,” Basil thought, drawing a profound but silent sigh of momentary relief. “Still, are you _quite_ sure that you do not know--as yet?” she resumed, taking a step in the direction of a sort of Dresden-china hod hanging between two pomegranate-bushes, that grew luxuriantly from old Spanish oil-jars of that green earthenware which makes one’s mouth water to look at, and plunging her hand into one of its cunningly devised compartments, extracted therefrom a little fistful of bird-seed. “This is the pantry,” she explained, holding a fold of her skirt up to catch the surplus filtering through her fingers. “Would you like to feed them?” “Whom?” “Again?” she laughed. “Wool-gathering again! Why, naturally, I meant the elephants in the _Jardin des Plantes_. How did you fail to guess that?” “I am sorry.... I was trying to solve ... a problem ... concerning the ... er ... social question.” “Dear me! Poor old Basil! If you keep such lofty ideals always before you you’ll soon cease being a social success. Besides,” she glibly continued, “it is not in your line to ponder and reflect like a fuzzy old owl; you are a man of action, _par excellence_, and when one tries to force one’s talents one does nothing with grace.” “Are you turning philosopher?” he tried to taunt her. “Philosophy is becoming part of my day’s work,” she airily replied. “But now do look at Bolingbroke; he is awfully jealous!” “Bolingbroke! May I be pardoned for hazarding another question? Who is Bolingbroke?” Marguerite looked at Basil, and again her glance held a subtle mixture of mirth and gravity.