"Well, do what you like about these wretched tableaux," he says, so wearily that Monica, though victorious, feels inclined to cry. "If they give you a moment's pleasure, why should I rebel? As you say, I am nothing to you. Come, let us go and look at this famous pear-tree." But she does not stir. They are inside the orchard, standing in a very secluded spot, with only some green apples and an ivied wall to see them. Her eyes are downcast, and her slender fingers are playing nervously with a ribbon on her gown. Her lips have taken a remorseful curve. Now, as though unable to restrain the impulse, she raises her eyes to his for a brief second, but, brief as it is, he can see that they are full of tears. "Brian," she says, nervously. It is the first time she has ever called him by his Christian name, and he turns to her a face still sad indeed, but altogether surprised and pleased. "Now, that is good of you," he says. "There is nothing good about me," says Monica, tearfully. "I am as horrid as I well can be, and you are----Brian, I will give up that tableau. I will not be Dolly Varden; no, not if Mr. Ryde went on his _knees_ to me." "My dear, _dear_ love!" says Mr. Desmond. "Do you indeed love me," says Monica, softly, "in spite of all I do?" "I love you _because_ of all you do. What is there not commendable in every action of yours? I love you; I live always in the hope that some day you will be more to me than you are to-day. A presumptuous hope perhaps," with a rather forced smile, "but one I _will_ not stifle. I suppose every one lives in a visionary world at times, where some 'not impossible she' reigns as queen. I dare say you think my queen _is_ impossible, yet you little know what dreams have been my playmates, night and day." "Am I your queen?" sweetly. "Yes, darling." "And you are glad I have given up this tableau?" "I don't know what I should have done if you hadn't." "Then, now you will do something for me," says Miss Beresford, promptly. "Anything," with enthusiasm. "Then to-morrow you are to come here _without_ the roses I heard you promising Miss Fitzgerald this afternoon." Her tone is quite composed, but two little brilliant flecks of color have risen hurriedly and are now flaunting themselves on either pretty cheek. She is evidently very seriously in earnest. "She asked me for them: she will think it so ungenerous, so rude," says Desmond. "Not ungenerous. She will never think you that, or rude either," says Monica, gauging the truth to a nicety. "_Careless_ if you will, but no more; and--I _want_ you to seem careless where she is concerned." "But why, my dearest?" "Because I don't like her; she always treats me as though I were some insignificant little girl still in short petticoats," says Miss Beresford, with rising indignation. "And because--because, too----" She pauses in some confusion. "Go on: because what?" with gentle encouragement.