“Oh yes,” she rejoined, with a careless shrug, “there will be plenty of that, I dare say.” Then, seeing his melancholy face, she added with an arch smile. “But London is a large place, so large that even besides the fashionable folk of whom you speak there might be room for honest John Cotley. And what though there be a whole horde of noble admirers coming to Court and applaud me! Is a worthy country gentleman for that obliged to hold aloof? Sir, I tell you in the great world of London there are many places where a man may see the object of his admiration. There are, to begin with, places of entertainment, such as Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and the like, and then there are the playhouses. Now, as a matter of fact, did you chance to be at Sadler’s Wells Theatre on this day se’en-night you would see me there.” “At a playhouse!” cried simple John, all in a turmoil of emotion. “Madam, I have never been at such a place in my life. My parents held that play-going was folly, if not worse, and indeed even were I so minded I have had no opportunities of frequenting such resorts. But to see you—if I thought there were a hope of seeing you— But no, you are mocking me. Even if I were to go there, how should I venture to intrude my company upon you?” “You are faint-hearted, in fact,” said she, while a wicked little dimple came and went about her lips, “and you remember the adage, ‘Faint heart’—” John looked at her bewildered, enraptured, and mystified. Her words appeared to encourage what had seemed to him a perfectly wild and preposterous hope, but her manner was at once gay and repellent. As he stood earnestly considering her in the endeavour to fathom her meaning, she ceased laughing, and fixed her eyes upon him with a gaze that was serious and almost sad. “Nay,” she said, “I speak foolishly. Do not come to town, Mr Cotley; better remain here in your tranquil and solitary home, and think upon me sometimes kindly. Think of this hour, an hour that is all peace and innocence and brightness. Come, shall we walk? I have a mind to explore these alleys.” She drew her scarf more closely round her, and looked about her, her face bright with a child’s curiosity and pleasure, her momentary gravity forgotten. “Oh, the roses,” she cried, and clapped her hands. “And those sober old gilly-flowers, how sweet they are. And what a forest of Michaelmas daisies! Pray, Mr Cotley, will you gather me a posy?” It is needless to say how eagerly John fulfilled her behest, and with what a distracting mixture of pleasure and longing he saw her fasten the flowers at her waist.