George, from his 'bus, caught many a bright eye under a jaunty little hat; gave each back its gleam from the depths of gay lightness that filled his heart. Nearing the Park he alighted; made two purchases. From a confectioner bun-corn for David and Angela, those ramping steeds; from a florist the reddest rose that an exhaustive search of stock could discover. Mary had from him such a rose at their every meeting. She might not wear it back to Palace Gardens--it would not flourish beneath Mrs. Chater's curiosity; but while they were together she would tuck it in her bosom, and George tenderly would bear it home and set it in a vase before him to lend him inspiration as he worked. It is almost certain that such a part is one for which flowers were especially designed. II. Those splendid steeds, David and Angela, having been duly exercised, groomed, and turned out to browse upon bun-corn, George rushed at once upon the matter that was singing within him. Where he sat with his Mary they were sheltered from any but chance obtrusion. She had taken off her gloves, and George gave her hands, as they lay in her lap, a little confident pat. It was the tap of the baton with which the conductor calls together his orchestra--for this was a song that George was about to tune, very confident that the chords of both instruments that should give the notes were in a harmony complete. He said: “Mary, do you know what I am going to talk about?” She had been a little silent that morning, he had thought; did not answer now, but smiled. He laid a hand upon both hers. “You must say 'yes.' You've got to say 'yes' about twenty times this morning, so start now. Do you know what I'm going to talk about?” “Yes.” “No objections this time?” “Yes.” He laughed; gave her hand a little smack of reproof. (You who have loved will excuse these lovers' absurdities.) “No, no; you are only to say 'yes' when I tell you. No objections to the subject this morning?” His Mary told him “No.” “Couldn't have a better morning for it, could we?” She took a little catch at her breath. George dropped the banter in his tone. “Nothing wrong to-day, is there, dear? Nothing up?” How sadly wrong everything in truth was she had determined not to tell him until she more certainly knew its extent. She shook her head; reassuringly smiled. “Well, that's all right--there couldn't be on a morning like this. Now we've got to begin at the beginning. Mary, I planned it all out last night--all this conversation. We've got to begin at the beginning--Do you know I've never told you yet that I love you? You knew it, though, didn't you, from the first, the very first? Tell me from when?” “George, this is awfully foolish, isn't it?” “Never mind. It's jolly nice. It's necessary, too. I've read about it. It's always done. Tell me from when you knew I loved you.” “After last Saturday.” “Oh, Mary! Much earlier than _that_! You must have!”