"They are devoid of souls, to be able to quit so divine a view in such hot haste. Besides, it is absurdly early to think of going indoors yet. By Jove, though!" looking at his watch, "I'm wrong: it is well after eleven. Now, who would have thought it?" "Are you sure you mean _eleven_?" with flattering incredulity. "Only too sure. _Hasn't_ the time gone by quickly? Well, I suppose I must take you in, which means candles and bed for you, and a dreary drive home for Kelly and me, and not a chance of seeing you alone again." "This time last week you couldn't have seen me at all," says Miss Beresford. "True. I am ungrateful. And altogether this has been such a delightful evening,--to me at least: were," doubtfully, "_you_ happy?" "Very, _very_ happy," with earnest, uplifted eyes. "Darling love!--I am afraid I must give you up to Mrs. O'Connor now," he goes on, presently, when an ecstatic thought or two has had time to come and go. "But, before going, say good-night to me here." "Good-night, Brian." He has never attempted to kiss her since that first time (and last, _so far_) in the orchard; and even now, though her pretty head is pressed against him, and her face is dangerously close to his, he still refrains. He has given her his word and will not break it; but perhaps he cannot altogether repress the desire to expostulate with her on her cruelty, because he gives voice to the gentle protest that rises to his lips. "That is very cold good-night," he says. "You would say quite as much as that to Kelly or any of the others." "I shouldn't call Mr. Kelly by his Christian name." "No; but you would, Ronayne." "Well, I shan't again, if you don't like it." "That has nothing at all to do with what I mean. I only think you might show me a little more favor than the rest." "Good-night, then, _dear_ Brian. Now, I certainly shouldn't dream of calling Mr. Ronayne dear Ulic." "Of course not. I should hope not, indeed! But still----there is something else that you might do for _me_." Miss Beresford draws herself a little--_a very_ little--away from him, and, raising her head, bestows upon him a glance that is a charming combination of mischief and coquetry. A badly-suppressed smile is curving the corner of her delicate lips. "What a long time it takes you to _say_ it!" she says, wickedly. At this they both break into low, soft laughter,--_delicious_ laughter!--that must not be overheard, and is suggestive of a little secret existing between them, that no one else may share. "That is an invitation," says Desmond, with decision. "I consider you have now restored to me that paltry promise I made to you the other day in the orchard. And here I distinctly decline ever to renew it again. No, there is no use in appealing to me: I am not to be either softened or coerced."