"See!" she says, half embarrassed by this _tête-à-tête_ that she has herself invited, holding up a bunch of scarlet geraniums that she has lately reft from one of the garden's dazzling squares--"I have been stealing! I hope Sir Thomas won't prosecute me; but as a new dress is with me a biennial occurrence, these are the only contributions I can make to the evening's festivity." "_Red_, of course!" he answers, smiling. "I never saw you that you had not something red or yellow about you. But why scarlet geraniums? Don't you know that the least imaginable shake (suiting the action to the word, and gently jogging the hand that holds the flowers)--there!" as a little scarlet shower confirms his prognostications. She stoops to pick up the scattered blossoms. "If I had some gum, I would drop a little into the centre of each flower; _that_ keeps the petals quite firm; I have often done it at home," she says, kneeling on one knee, and looking up gravely for advice and assistance into his friendly, dark face: "but I have no gum." "Haven't you? I have--somebody has" (ringing the bell). "Please sit down" (drawing an armchair forwards for her). "This is Constance's chair: and don't look as if you were racking your brains for a decent excuse to get away from the only comfortable room in the house." She obeys, and her eyes wander curiously round. Pipes, whips, saloon pistols, prints of Derby winners; photographs of Nilsson tricked out in water-weeds as "Ophelia;" of Patti gazing up, as "Marguerite," into Mario's fortunate eyes; a table strewn with books--two or three yellow-paper backed, with enticing Gallic titles, similar to the one she has just so heroically foregone. Looking up from these latter, she involuntarily catches his eye. "You are thinking that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander," he says, laughing rather consciously; "but I assure you that it is not so. The gander is not nearly such a delicate bird, and takes much stronger seasoning." The gum arrives. She holds the flowers, while he with a paint-brush delicately insinuates one drop into the scarlet heart of each. Their heads are bent so close together that his crisp brown locks brush against the silk-smooth sweep of hers. "Gently, gently!" cries Esther, pleasantly excited by the consciousness of doing something rather _hors de règle_ in that prim household, in having this impromptu _tête-à-tête_ with its heir--"not so much! the least _soupçon_ imaginable--there! does not it look like a sticky dewdrop?" "These people that are coming ought to be very much flattered by the efforts you are making in their honour," says Gerard, half jealously. "Are they worth making efforts for?" "_You_ must tell _me_ that to-morrow." "Who will take me in to dinner, do you think?" she asks, confidentially, looking up at him with childish inquisitiveness. "I have not an idea; but make your mind easy; it won't be Sir Thomas or me."