"Oh, Geoff, always, always." "Then all is well. I half feared that if Winborough got a chance to talk to you alone, and perhaps bullied and argued and persuaded and appealed to your affection for me, and all that sort of thing, you might perchance be led to imagine that you were really ensuring my ultimate happiness by going away and leaving no trace whereby I could discover you again. One hears of such things, you know." "If I thought it would be really best for you, be sure I would----" "Evarne, my dear--my dearest--remember----" "Yes, Geoff, I do remember, whatever it might be you were going to remind me of, for I forget nothing. I do believe I can make you happy. You hear that? I firmly believe I can make your life happier than it could be without me. That belief is the foundation of all my actions. Will you always remember that? Please take it into your very heart of hearts, and let it fix itself there indelibly." For some time they sat silent. With Geoff so very near to her, Evarne became conscious of a gentle calm, a certain sense of peace, a despondency that was mournful, but less desperate. It was with an effort that she finally roused herself sufficiently to take his watch out from his pocket and look at the time. "Seven--seven o'clock and past!" she sighed, replacing it. "Ah me! You mustn't think, dear, that I'm dreadfully rude and inhospitable, but I'm afraid I must ask you not to stay any longer." "Oh--h!" "It's no use saying 'oh' in that dolorous manner," she declared, smiling. "You see--it's this way--old Philia has to leave here for the 'Poly' about seven. She will be going in a few minutes." "But we don't mind, do we? We don't want the old lady." Evarne cast down her eyes. The only excuse that had crossed her mind for getting Geoff out of the house struck her as being decidedly petty and unworthy. "It is stupid, I know well; but people do talk so." "Why, silly little Evarne, you are surely not bothering about Mrs. Grundy and the neighbours, are you?" With a somewhat feeble and shamefaced smile she rose up from out the depths of the chair, and replied only by fetching his hat and offering it to him with a little curtsey. "It's only till to-morrow. I shall come to the studio just as usual." The young man took the proffered hat with undisguised reluctance. "Of course, I cannot stay if my hostess turns me out thus firmly," he grumbled, "but I'm sure it is not necessary. I believe you're tired of me." She shook her head confidently. "I'm very sure you don't think that really." His momentary ill-humour died away. "Of course I don't, dear heart. I dare say you are in the right. Everything you do is perfect, only--I warn you--you will have to marry me sooner than ever for this. Can't you settle on a definite date by to-morrow? Do try." She disregarded his question. "I'm glad you're not vexed. You did frown at me, you did, and it made you look--oh, terribly ugly--just like a mediæval gargoyle."