"No, thank goodness, there isn't," says Terence, with moody fervor. "I'll acknowledge it at once, without the run. To have frequent repetitions of it would be more than human nature could endure. I have known two homes already; I should think a third would be my death." So saying, he shoulders the forbidden gun and marches off. Monica and Kit, getting down from their elevated position, also pursue their path, which leads in a contrary direction. "Monica," says Kit, presently, slipping her slender brown fingers through her sister's arm, "what did Terry mean just now, when he spoke about some one being 'spoons' on you? Does that mean being in love with you?" No answer. "Is Mr. Desmond, then, in love with you?" No answer. "_Is_ he?" "Oh, Kit, how can I answer such a question as that?" "In words, I suppose. _Is_ he in love with you?" "I don't know," says Monica, in a troubled tone. "If I ever had a lover before, I should _know_; but----" "That means he is," says the astute Kit. "And I'm sure," with a little loving squeeze of her arm, "I don't wonder at it." "You must not say that," says Monica, earnestly. "Indeed, he said a few _things_ to me, but that is nothing; and----" "You think he _likes_ you?" "Yes," reluctantly. "I believe he adores the very ground you walk on." "Oh, no, indeed." "If you say that, he _isn't_ a real lover. A real one, to my mind, ought to be ready and willing to kiss the impressions your heels may make in the earth." "That would be the act of a fool; and Mr. Desmond is not a fool." "Ergo, not a lover. And yet I think he is _yours_. Monica," coaxingly, "did he say any pretty things to you?" "What should he say? I only met him twice." "You are prevaricating," gazing at her severely. "Why don't you answer me honestly?" "I don't know what _you_ call 'pretty things.'" "Yes, you do. Did he tell you your eyes were _deep, deep_ wells of love, and that your face was full of soul?" "No, he did not," says Monica, somewhat indignantly; "_certainly_ not. The idea!" "Well, that is what Percival said to the girl _he_ loved in the book I was reading yesterday," says Kit, rather cast down. "Then I'm very glad Mr. Desmond isn't like Percival." "I daresay he is nicer," says Kit, artfully. Then she tucks her arm into her sister's, and looks fondly in her face. "He must have said _something_ to you," she says. "Darling love, why won't you tell your own Kitten all about it?" A little smile quivers round Monica's lips. "Well, I will, then," she says. In her heart I believe she is glad to confide in somebody, and why not in Kit the sympathetic? "First, he made me feel he was delighted to meet me again. Then he asked me to go for a walk _alone_ with him; then he said he was--my lover!" "Oh!" says Kit, screwing up her small face with delight. "And then he asked me to meet him again to-day with _you_."