"No, no," hastily. "I can believe you without that." "Did you hear about your Ryde?" asks Desmond, suddenly. "I disclaim the possession," says Monica. "But what of him?" "He has been ordered, with his regiment, to Egypt, to fight Arabi, where I hope he will be shot. And the 36th are coming in his place." "How can you say such shocking things?" "Is it shocking to say the 36th are coming to Clonbree?" "No, but what you said about Mr. Ryde." "Oh, that! Well, I hope, then, if they don't knock the life they will knock the conceit and the superfluous _flesh_ out of him: will that do?" "Very badly. He was a horrid man in many ways, but he did _you_ no harm." "He dared to look at you." "The cat may look at the king." "But the cat may not look at my queen. So now, madam, what have you to say?" "Well, never mind, then: tell me about Hermia. So Mr. Kelly is engaged to her?" "Yes. He has just discovered her to be the most superior as well as the loveliest woman upon earth. He told me so. I ventured mildly, but firmly, to differ with him and enter a protest on your behalf, but he wouldn't hear of it. In his opinion you are nowhere beside the majestic Hermia." "I know that. He is right," says Monica, meekly. But there is a reproachful question in her eyes, as she says it, that contradicts the meekness. "He is _not_," says Desmond, with loving indignation, pressing her dear little head so close against his heart that she can hear it throbbing bravely and can find joy in the thought that each separate throb is all her own. "The man who thinks so must be insane. A fig for Hermia! Where would she be if placed beside _you_, my 'Helen fair beyond compare'?" "You are prejudiced; you tell too flattering a tale," says Monica, with soft disparagement; but the fond, foolish, lover-like words are very dear and sweet to her, all the same. He has his arms round her; in her tender childish fashion she has laid her cheek against his; and now, with a slow movement, she turns her head until her lips reach his. "I love you," she whispers. Almost in a sigh the words are breathed, and a sense of rapture--of completion--renders the young man for the instant mute. Yet in her soul so well she knows of his content that she cares little for any answer save that which his fond eyes give. A breath from the sleeping world of flowers below comes up to the balcony and bathes the lovers in its sweets. The "wandering moon" looks down upon them, and lights up the dark windows behind them, till they looked like burnished silver. A deadly silence lies on grass and bough; it seems to them as though, of all the eager world, they two only are awake, and alone! "Do I count with you, then, as more than all?" he says, at length; "than Terence or than Kit?" "You know it," she says, earnestly. Suddenly he loosens his arms from round her, and, pushing her slender, white-robed figure gently backwards, gazes searchingly into her calm but wondering face.