That fine afternoon--April budding into May--this lady listened to Ingram in the garden. Of all sounds in the world the sweetest music for her ear was made by a man's voice embroidering the theme--_“You are lovely, you are cruel, I die.”_ Ingram's descant on the golden phrase was querulous, after his manner. He took his lover's smarts, as one must suppose them, hardly. As thus: _“You are lovely_--but what's that to me, if I can't touch you? You sting my eyes, you inflame, you wound--or I think you do; here am I, tied by the leg to a dead woman--for dead to me she is, the she-cat Sanchia--looking at you because I can't help myself. You are soft and lax, you purr when I stroke you; I could make a pet of you. Was ever a man of property and station in such a case?” _“You are cruel_--because, though I could put out my hand and take you, yet you expect me to do it. That's all over, for me. I've done that sort of thing--Sanchia knows. Now I must trouble you to advance. I'm sick of life on these terms: you could make life worth living. I must really trouble you: sorry to seem languid, but I _am_ languid. You, with your fine sensibilities, ought to be the first to feel that; but no: you wait, looking exquisite, with eyes like blue-black water, and a mouth, a mouth like a flower. You soft gossamer beauty, I could crush you where you hover; but you won't come and be crushed. Certainly, you are cruel.” _I die._ He avoided that. It was absurd. She thought for one moment that he hinted it when he said, shrugging off his ranges of hot-house--“Good of their kind, I fancy. But what good are they to me--a solitary beggar? I never go into 'em, you know. I thought I should take an interest when I had 'em put up. It looked like it--But now! who cares whether I go into 'em or not? Who cares whether I live or die?” There had been a pathetic ring there. She had murmured a gentle rebuke; her eyes had brimmed, reproaching him. It was then that he had taken her hand, at the going-out from the fig-house. “Ruth,” he had said, “my kind, pretty Ruth.” Then he stooped his head and kissed her. Through three pairs of doors Glyde, in the peachhouse, had seen the act, and paused in his spraying. It was over in a minute. The pair strolled away and passed out of the walled-garden. Glyde, who had turned very white, compressed his lips and went back to his work--like a machine. Presently a light step made him start, look guardedly up, watch and wait. Sanchia, bare-headed, fresh and _debonnaire_, came in, like a stream of west wind. Her eyes beamed her health and pleasure. “Oh, Struan,” she said, “do come and see the _Susianas_. They are on the very point of opening. Do come. There's nobody about. They've gone down to the river.” He could not face her, knowing what he knew. But he could not resist her either. “I'll come,” he said, and followed her.