“What a lovely morning! I should like to be out of doors the whole entire day!” exclaimed Honor, as she and Arthur rode along the least frequented road within the precincts of the Regent’s Park, “and what is more, I long to be in the country. Lydia had a holiday on Sunday, and she says that all the beautiful chestnut-trees in Bushy Park are in full blossom, and I _should_ so like to go there! Have you ever seen the avenue? Mrs. Norcott has not, and she would like, she says, to drive there this afternoon better than anything. Mr. Vavasour, couldn’t we do it?” in a pretty tone of beseechment. “I have so little more time; and”--her cheeks flushing, half with anger and half with shame at this betrayal of her home secrets,--“I have had _such_ a letter to-day! so cross--so unfeeling! O, Mr. Vavasour, I am afraid,” looking very piteous, “that it will be all so dreadful when I go home. What _shall_ I do? I almost wish that I had never come to London, the Paddocks will seem so dull, so miserable when I go back!” “Miserable? Are you _quite_ sure of that?” coming nearer, and resting his hand on the pommel of his companion’s saddle. “Don’t think me _very_ selfish, but I should not like you to be too happy, Honor, not _too_ happy when you are away from me. You sweet, beautiful creature!” gazing passionately on her downcast eyes, “why did not I see you, know you, in the lost time gone by, when you _might_ have loved me, Honor? Am I too bold, too vain, to think, to hope that had we met sooner--met before you were tied and bound to another man--we two might have been happy? Speak to me, Honor. How can you be so cold, so quiet, when I--”