She got up slowly, and he dusted a few dry leaves from her skirt. Straightening himself, he stood looking at her. "I've known you such a little while," he said. "I wonder why?" "Do you know me now?" she asked. "Much better. When I come back, shall we have more rides like this?" "I don't know," she said. "What do you mean?" "You may not want them. Your mother might not like it. And" (Eve will out, even in an Evangelical) "nor will Miss Ernest." He flushed. "I shall do as I please," he said. "And I know I shall want you." She lifted her dark eyes to his face. "Will you?" she cried. "Oh I hope you do! I can't help it. It means so much to me. Ask me just sometimes, Paul." "Will you write to me at Cambridge?" he demanded. She shook her head. "No," she said decidedly, "not yet, anyway. I can't write good enough letters for one thing, and for another you mustn't waste your time on me." Paul stood considering her. He had an idea, but he was in truth rather frightened of it. It seemed to be going too far. But his desire won the battle with his caution. "Would you give me a photograph of yourself to take to Cambridge?" he asked. "I haven't a good one," she said. "But you've something--a snapshot, anything," he pressed eagerly. She smiled radiantly and suddenly. "I've a rubbishy old thing they took on the river at Hampton Court last August," she said, "but my hair was down then." "That'll be lovely!" he cried. "Do give me that." "How? Shall I send it you?" Paul's letters were not many, and fairly common property at the family breakfast table. He sought for an escape from that. "Will you be at the prayer meeting to-night?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "Well, so shall I. In fact, I'm leading it. Write me a little letter and give it me afterwards, will you?" She nodded. Neither of them were aware of incongruity. Possibly they were right, and there was none. (4)