"Oh, my dear, it is like having a tooth out," she said. "No doubt it is a shock. But it no longer aches. There is Mr. Anthony; let him ask you, anyhow. That is bare justice; and remember what I have said." "I shall not forget it," said Maud. Under no circumstances would Kitty have bitten out her tongue, so it would be a mere figure of speech to say that she would have even been inclined to had she known precisely what effect her volubility would have had on her friend. But it is certain that she would sooner have bitten it very hard--so that it hurt, in fact--could she have foreseen in how opposite a direction to that intended her words had inclined her. As it was, she left the two together in a small solitude encompassed by company, and went to join her husband with a light heart and an approving conscience--a delicious and rare combination. Anthony, at any rate, was primed and ready. "Do take me to see the rose-garden," he said to Maud, with a _banalité_ that seemed to him unavoidable. He was quite aware of it, and regretted the necessity, for, to do him justice, he had tried many other lures that afternoon. "I hear it is quite beautiful," he went on; "and Mrs. Brereton promised me you should show it me after tea. And it is after tea," he added. Maud was slightly taller than he, and had the right to drop her eyelids a little as she looked at him. Of the adventitious advantage she took more than her justifiable measure, and beheld the back of his collar-stud. "By all means," she said. "A promise is a promise, whoever gave it." "You are rather hard on me," observed Anthony. "Hard? Surely not." "Well, on your mother, then." Maud thought a moment. "It is natural for you to think so," she said, "since she agrees with you." They had left the lawn behind them, and threaded a dusky lane set in rhododendrons. Anthony stopped. "She agrees with me," he said. "In one thing, anyhow, she agrees with me--we both love you." In spite of herself Maud gave him a round of internal applause. She was still so indifferent that she could easily judge him, as if he had been an actor on a stage. Outwardly, with the tongue she could say nothing, and stood, having walked on a pace or two, with her back to him. His voice made her turn round. "Maud, Maud!" he said. "Maud, they were crying and calling." "Ah!" she said, with a sudden interest, "you learned that." He shook his head. "I read it three months ago," he said. "It has stuck in my memory. Because everything cries 'Maud, Maud!' to me." The blush and the averted eye were hers. Quite unconsciously she began to know what Lady Ardingly had meant--what Kitty had meant. "I am sorry," she said. "I ought never to have come here with you. I thought I should laugh at you merely. I do not laugh; I would sooner cry." "Thank you for that," said he. "I understand that you do not accept my devotion. What I do not understand is whether you definitely refuse it. Do you refuse it?"