"But you are not that," she says, lifting her brows and seeming half amused at his boldness. "By one word you can make me so." "Can I? What is the word?" This is puzzling; but Mr. Ronayne, nothing daunted says,-- "You have only to say, 'you are,' and I am." "It isn't Christmas yet," says Mrs. Bohun: "you shouldn't throw conundrums at me out of season. It is too much? 'you _are_ and I _am_.' I couldn't guess it, indeed; I'm anything but clever." "If you say the 'I will,' you will find the solution to _our_ conundrum at once." "But that is two words." "Olga, does the fact that I love you carry no weight with it at all." "But do you love me--_really_?" "Need I answer that?" "But there are others, younger, prettier." "Nonsense! There is no one prettier than you in this wide world." "Ah!" with a charming smile, "now indeed I believe you do love me, for the Greek Cupid is blind. What a silly boy you are to urge this matter! For one thing I am older than you." "A year or two." "For another----" "I will not listen. 'Stony limits cannot hold love out:' why, therefore, try to discourage me?" "But you should think----" "I think only that if you will say what I ask you, I shall be always with you, and you with me." "What is _your_ joy is _my_ fear. Custom creates weariness! And--'the lover in the husband may be lost!'" "Ah! you have thought of me in that light," exclaims the young man, eagerly. "Beloved if you will only take me, you shall find in me both a lover and husband until your life's end." The smile has died from Olga's lips; she holds out her hands to him. "So be it," she says gravely. "You mean it?" says Ronayne, as yet afraid to believe in his happiness. "Yes. But if ever you repent blame yourself." "And if you repent?" "I shall blame you too," she says, with a sudden return to her old archness. "And you will refuse Rossmoyne?" She laughs outright at this, and glances at him from under drooping lashes. "I can't promise that," she says, with carefully simulated embarrassment--"because----" "What?" haughtily, moving away from her. "I _did so yesterday_." "Oh, darling, how cruelly I misjudged you! I thought--I feared----" "Never mind all that. I know--I forgive you. I've a _lovely_ temper," says Olga, with self-gratulation. "Why did you refuse him? Was it," hopefully, "because you didn't like him?" "N--o. Not so much that--as----" again this shameless coquette hesitates, and turns her head uneasily from side to side, as though afraid to give utterance to the truth. "What? Explain, Olga," says her lover, in a fresh agony. "As that I----_loved you_!" returns she, with a heavenly smile. His arms close round her, and at this moment she lets all her heart be seen by him. The mocking light dies out of her eyes, her face grows earnest. She lets her heart beat with happy unrestraint against his. The minutes fly, but time was never made to be counted by blissful lovers.