"It is indeed!" He is staring at her. Very gently he takes the little hand that holds the flower and keeps it in his own. He detains it so lightly that she might withdraw it if she pleases, but she does not. Perhaps she doesn't please, or perhaps she sees nothing remarkable in his action. At all events, she, who is so prone to blush on all occasions, does not change color now, but chatters to him gayly, in an unconcerned manner, about the scented blossoms round her, and afterwards about the people yonder, behind the tall flowering shrubs that surround the tennis-ground. And still her little slender fingers lie passively in his. Glancing at them, he strokes them lightly with his other hand, and counts her rings. "Four--five," he says; "quite a burden for such a little hand to carry." "I like them," says Monica: "brooches and earrings and bracelets I don't care for, but rings I love. I never really feel dressed until they are on. To slip them on my fingers is the last thing I do every morning before running downstairs. At least nearly the last." "And what is the last?" "I say my prayers," says Monica, smiling. "That is what every one does, isn't it?" "I don't know," says Mr. Desmond, not looking at her. It seems to him a long, long time now since last he said _his_ prayers. And then he suddenly decides within himself that he will say them to-morrow morning, "the last thing before going downstairs;" he cannot have quite forgotten _yet_. He is examining her rings as he thinks all this, and now a little pale turquoise thing attracts his notice. "Who gave you that?" he asks, suddenly. It is to a jealous eye rather a lovable little ring. "Papa, when I was fourteen," says Monica. "It is very pretty, isn't it? I have felt quite grown up ever since he gave me that." "Monica," says Brian Desmond suddenly, tightening his hold on her hand, "had you ever a lover before?" "Before?" "Yes," slowly, and as if determined to make his meaning clear, and yet, too, with a certain surprise at his own question. "Had you?" "Before?" as if bewildered, she repeats the word again. "Why, I never had a lover _at all_!" "Do not say that again," says Brian, moving a step nearer to her and growing pale: "I am your lover now--and _forever_!" "Oh! no, _no,_" says Monica, shrinking from him. "Do not say that." "I won't, if you forbid me, but," quietly, "I am, and shall be, all the same. I think my very soul--belongs to you." A crunching of gravel, a sound of coming footsteps, the murmur of approaching voices. Monica, pallid as an early snowdrop, looks up to see her Aunt Priscilla coming towards her, accompanied by a young man, a very tall and very stout young man, with a rather drilled air. "Ah! here is Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, breathlessly. "Who is that with her?"