His voice sounded very soft and persuasive, but Honor, usually so pliant to the wishes of others, was inexorable. It was very pleasant there among the roses. The summer air fanned her cheek with such a sweet refreshing breath, and it was hard to change it for the low-ceilinged parlour where Mrs. Beacham was expecting her, and which that worthy lady (who entertained rather an objection to fresh air in rooms) had a peculiar talent for rendering “stuffy.” Above all, it was hard to say “good-bye” to Arthur Vavasour--hard to leave her pleasant friend--the friend who “understood” her, and who had so often, with such quiet, unobtrusive kindness, saved her from the annoyance of old Mrs. Beacham’s “worrying ways.” “I think I must go in now,” she said quietly, though her heart was beating fast. “I have been out long enough;” and her step was not very steady as she drew nearer to the house which, without _him_, she could not have told Arthur truly that she loved. He stopped, however, before they were within view of the windows, and exclaimed with angry vehemence, “I shall say good-bye here, I hate public leave-takings. You will give me your hand, at least?” Poor Honor! Her very anxiety to do right--her instinctive dread that something, she knew not what, might be said by Arthur that John’s wife ought not to listen to--did her ill service at that crisis of her life. Had she pursued her walk with an even step, and without the blushing agitation that betrayed her inward feelings, Arthur would never have taken courage to address her in those petulant and peremptory words. She was frightened, half angry, and half fascinated by his vehemence; but she never thought of withholding the hand he asked for. Why should he doubt her giving it? What had happened during that short quarter of an hour to change the friendly relations that had subsisted between them? It was all strange, and sudden, and bewildering; and tears of regret and reproach glistened in Honor’s upturned lashes. She looked this way and that, in pretty and very manifest confusion, her soft red lips slightly pouting; it was so vexatious to be silly, and to have nothing to say just when she so particularly wanted to utter something to the purpose; and then Mr. Vavasour--it was so rude and tiresome--would keep looking at her so! If he would only go! Honor felt quite sure _that_ would be a relief. She had never in life before felt so thoroughly uncomfortable. He spoke at last--what an age those few short moments had appeared!--and, still with her hand in his, said in a low voice, and feelingly, despite the _badinage_ that neutralised its tone of sentiment, “I hope you don’t mean quite to forget me, Mrs. Beacham? I’ve had a very jolly hour or two here with--John, since I’ve been at home this time. I shall think of you the day I’m turned off; perhaps you’ll remember to return the compliment?”