"I don't believe I ever want anything," says Fabian, slowly; and then they walk on again, returning by the way she had come. The night-wallflower is flinging its perfume abroad, the seringas are making sweet the air, a light eager wind rushes softly past them. "It was a long drive," says Fabian, presently, with all the air of a man who is determined to rouse himself--however against his will--and carry on conversation of some sort. "Are you tired?" "It _was_ long. But everything here is so new, so fresh, so sweet, that I have forgotten to be tired." "You are one of those, perhaps, who always find variety charming." As he speaks he carefully removes a drooping branch of roses out of her way. "Not quite always." She smiles as she defends herself. "I like old friends, and old songs best. I am not absolutely fickle. But I have always had a great desire to live in the country." "People who have never tried it, always do have that desire." "You think I shall be _desillusionne_ in a week? But I shall not. When George had to return to India, I was so unhappy in the thought that perhaps I should have to live in town until his return. Of course I could have gone somewhere to live by myself, and could have found some charming old lady to take care of me, but I am not fond of my own society, and I can't bear charming old ladies." "One feels quite sorry for the old ladies," says Fabian, absently. "I was afraid I should have to put in my two years of waiting for George, with Auntie Maud, and that would have been terrible. It would mean seasons, and months at fashionable watering-places, which would be only town out of town--the same thing all over again. I was so glad when Uncle Christopher wrote to say he would like me to come here. I have often wondered since," she says, suddenly--smiling somewhat wistfully, and flushing a warm crimson,--"whether all of _you_ didn't look upon my coming with disfavor." "What put such a thought as that into your head?" "A very natural one I think. A stranger coming to a household always makes such a difference; and you had never met me, and you might not like me, and--. Did any of you resent my coming?" "No," says Fabian. There is no energy in his reply, yet it is impossible to doubt that he means exactly what he says. "You must not begin by thinking unkindly of us," he goes on, gently. "You may believe me when I say none of us felt anything but pleasure at the idea of your coming." "Yes? That was very good of you all." She is longing to say, "Yet you see I kept you from dinner to-night," but after a moment's reflection leaves it unsaid. "I hope the country will not disappoint you," he says, after a slight pause. "It is unwise to begin by expecting too much."