"You never saw such a sight!" she is saying,--"laden down to the ground. The finest show of pears in the country. I was telling Williams he would do well to prop it. But I suppose it will ruin the tree for the next two years to come." "What, the propping?" says Rossmoyne. "No, the enormous produce, you silly boy!" says his hostess, with a laugh. Monica, who is growing restless beneath Desmond's angry regard, turns to her nervously. "I think I should like to see it," she says, softly. "Allow me to take you to it," says Ryde, quickly, coming to her side. "Miss Beresford is coming with _me_," interposes Desmond. His face is pale, and his eyes flash ominously. "That is for Miss Beresford to decide." "She _has_ decided," says Desmond, growing even paler, but never removing his eyes from his rival's. He is playing a dangerous game, but even in the danger is ecstasy. And, as Monica continues silent, a great joy fills his soul. "But until"--begins the Englishman, doggedly--"I hear----" "Mrs. Bohun's cup is causing her embarrassment. See to it," interrupts Desmond, unemotionally. And then, turning to Monica, he says, "Come," coldly, but with such passionate entreaty in his eyes that she is borne away by it, and goes with him submissively across the lawn, until she has so far withdrawn herself from her companions that a return would be undignified. They go as far as the entrance to the orchard, a good quarter of a mile, in silence, and then the storm breaks. "I won't have that fellow holding you in his arms," says Desmond, pale with grief and rage, standing still and confronting her. "I thought you said you would never be jealous again," says Monica, who has had time to recover herself, and time, too, to grow angry. "I also said I hoped you would never give me cause." "Mrs. Bohun has arranged this tableau." "Then disarrange it." "But how?" "Say you won't act with Ryde." "You can't expect me to make myself laughable in that way." "Then _I'll_ do it." "And so make me laughable in another way. I can't see what right you have to interfere," she breaks out suddenly, standing before him, wilful but lovely. "What are you to me, or I to you, that you should order me about like this?" "You are all the world to me,--you are _my wife_," says the young man, in a solemn tone, but with passionately angry eyes. "You can refuse me if you like, but I shall go to my grave with your image only in my heart. As to what I am to _you_, that is quite another thing,--less than nothing, I should say." "And no wonder, too, considering your _awful_ temper," says Monica, viciously; but her tone trembles. At this he seems to lose heart. A very sad look creeps into his dark eyes and lingers there.