Before dinner Mr. Malherb, in all the splendour of fine black, new pumps, and a frilled shirt-front with a diamond in it, went off to his cellar for those remarkable wines that he assured familiar guests were now no longer in the market; while the lover enjoyed some precious moments with his lady. Grace looked fair to see in her white muslin and blue ribbons. She wore the high waist of the period; her hair towered in a mass on the top of her head, yet little prim curls hung like flowers on either side; white shoes cased her feet, and the elastic of them made a cross between her ankles. "The Moor suits you nobly, dear Grace," said Mr. Norcot, who was himself resplendent. "I never saw you lovelier." "Do leave all that," she said. "Let us meet in peace." "So be it," he answered, and continued-- "'Gracie, I swear by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more,-- What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow? Because I cannot love thee more than now!'" A gentle look came into his blue eyes as he gazed upon her. It was not natural to them, but he had practised it often before the looking-glass, and could assume it at pleasure. "Still occupied with other men's jests, Peter. If you only understood me! Do you know why I love Dartmoor? Because it leaves me alone. Because it cares no more for me than for the ant that crawls on the grass-blade. So big, so grand, so stern it is. And it always tells the truth." "You are quite wrong. The Moor loves with a hopeless passion. It has kissed you. I see the print of its kisses on your cheek. It has kissed your little elbow, for I note a dimple there that is new to me." Grace frowned and pulled up her mitten. She sat upon the music-stool, struck a note or two, and did not answer. Peter sighed. "You are cold, you are cold," he said. "What does Wycherley remark? 'Out of Nature's hands they came plain, open, silly, and fit for slaves, as she and heaven intended 'em; but damned Love----' There it is! 'Blessed Love,' if you happened to love me; doubly, trebly 'damned Love,' since your heart is set on somebody else." "Not at all. I love nobody. I hate the word." "And you are seventeen to-morrow!" "'On that auspicious day began the race Of every virtue joined in one sweet Grace.'" "What is my birthday to you, Peter?" "You can ask that! I _must_ answer in an epigram. There is only one reply possible. Martial--but I know a beautiful translation:-- "'Believing hear what you deserve to hear: Your birthday as my own to me is dear; But yours gives most; for mine did only lend Me to the world; yours gave to me a friend.' Only that word 'friend' is too weak." "I wish you would be content with friendship, and not fret me to death with all this nonsense. Do you know that father has bought me a lovely hunter for a birthday gift?"