"Yes," assented Barbara. "But he concealed the honourable scar under a lovely wig." She turned her eyes fondly to Basil’s window from which the familiar passage from the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata came throbbing. "And—oh, dearest!—can any physical infirmity affect true love?" she cried rapturously. At last she was coming to the point Marjolaine had been insidiously leading up to. Marjolaine watched her closely. "I suppose not." "I am quite sure it cannot!" cried Barbara with a burst of enthusiasm. Marjolaine took both Barbara’s hands in hers and forced her to face her. She spoke very earnestly. "Barbara, why are you quite sure?" Barbara instantly fell into a pretty state of confusion. "Dearest!—how searching you are!" "Tell me!" insisted Marjolaine, "why are you quite sure?" Barbara looked this way and that; toyed with the lace on Marjolaine’s sleeve; and said quite irrelevantly, "Dearest—did your mother match those lovely silks?" Marjolaine was not to be put off. "Mr. Basil plays the violin beautifully," she said. Barbara fluttered exactly like a sparrow taking a sand-bath. She hopped all round Marjolaine. "Oh, dearest!" she chirped. "Oh, you wicked dearest! You have guessed my secret!" Then, if I may put it that way, she perched on Marjolaine’s finger and pecked her on each cheek. "I was sure before I guessed!" laughed Marjolaine. The Eyesore caught another fish; and, what was equally astonishing, for the first time in his life, he moved from his accustomed place and came nearer the girls. Barbara put on as solemn a face as she could contrive. "Promise you will never tell a living soul?" "Look!" cried Marjolaine, "the Eyesore’s caught another fish!" "Poor darling!" exclaimed Barbara. Marjolaine gave her a horrified look. "You are not in love with the Eyesore, too!" "I meant the fish!" explained Barbara, "to be drawn out of the watery element." "Ah," said Marjolaine, wisely, "that comes of a fondness for worms." "Worms!" repeated Barbara, lugubriously. "Ah, worms!—I shall let the worm i’ the bud feed on my damaged cheek." The two were now sitting on the bench under the elm, and twittering together like little love-birds. The Eyesore came nearer. "Barbara," said Marjolaine, with meaning, "suppose Mr. Basil’s cheek is being fed on, too?" "Dearest, that is impossible," said Barbara. Marjolaine sat nearer and spoke more confidentially. "Suppose I know it is?" Barbara pushed her away and looked at her. "You wonderful child!" Then she added, shortly, "Then why does n’t he speak?" "Suppose he ’s too shy?" Barbara appealed to the universe. "Oh! are n’t men silly?"—She luxuriated in her sense of tragedy. "Then we must look and long." Marjolaine breathed into her ear, "But suppose a third person spoke!" "You!" exclaimed Barbara, with delight.