"I don't, indeed; I can't conceive such a situation. You do me a great injustice, I think. I verily believe if I tried my very hardest I couldn't instil terror into the smallest child in the village." "You know what I mean. Of course," scornfully, "I should never be afraid of a _man_: it is Aunt Priscilla I am afraid of. And see, see _there_!" in an agony, "she is standing quite close to us, talking to somebody." "If that is your aunt Priscilla, she is safe for an hour at least. The old lady with her is Lady Rossmoyne, and she never lets any one (unfortunate enough to get into her clutches) go free under a generous sixty minutes. She is great on manures, and stock, and turnips, and so forth. And your aunt, I hear, is a kindred spirit." "But then there is Aunt Penelope," says Monica, timidly. "She, too, is arranged. Half an hour ago I met her so deep in a disgraceful flirtation with the vicar that I felt it my duty to look the other way. Depend upon it, she is not thinking of you." "But some one may tell them I have been talking to you." "I always thought I had a proper amount of pride until I met you," says Mr. Desmond. "You have dispelled the belief of years. 'Is thy servant a dog,' that you should be ostracized for speaking to him? Never mind; I submit even to that thought if it gives me five minutes more of your society. But listen to me. No one can tell tales of us, because we are both strangers in the land. No one knows me from Adam, and just as few know you from--let us say _Eve_, for euphony's sake." She laughs. Encouraged by her merriment to believe that at least she bears him no ill will, Brian says, hurriedly,-- "Come with me to the rose-garden. It is stupid sitting here alone, and the garden is beyond praise. Do come." "Why?" lifting her heavy lashes. "For one thing, we shall be free from observation, and you know you dislike being seen with me. For another----" He pauses. "Well?" rather nervously. "It is just this, that I _must_ speak to you," says the young man, his gay manner changing to one of extreme earnestness. "You were unkind to me that day we parted. I want you to tell me why. I understand quite that I have no right to demand even the smallest favor of you, yet I do entreat you to come with me." For another moment she hesitates, then-- "Yes, I will come with you," she says, raising her soft eyes to his. In her whole manner, voice, and bearing there is something so sweet and childish and trusting as to render Desmond her slave upon the spot. The path to the rose-garden leads away from Miss Priscilla, so they avoid detection as they go. But they are singularly silent and grave; when the garden is reached they pass between the rows of growing blossoms mute, if rich in thought. At last, when silence is becoming too eloquent to be borne, her companion turns to her.