"Were you looking for any one?" she asked, and the man shook his head, laughing. "No one in particular, unless it was you." Daphne's soft brow darkened. "It couldn't possibly have been me," she said in a rather stately small voice, "because, you see, I don't know you. Perhaps you didn't know that there is no one living in Green Gardens now?" "Oh, yes, I knew. The Fanes have left for Ceylon, haven't they?" "Sir Harry left two weeks ago, because he had to see the old governor before he sailed, but Lady Audrey only left last week. She had to close the London house, too, so there was a great deal to do." "I see. And so Green Gardens is deserted?" "It is sold," said Daphne, with a small quaver in her voice, "just this afternoon. I came over to say good-by to it, and to get some mint and lavender from the garden." "Sold?" repeated the man, and there was an agony of incredulity in the stunned whisper. He flung out his arm against the sun-warmed bricks of the high wall as though to hold off some invader. "No, no; they'd never dare to sell it." "I'm glad you mind so much," said Daphne softly. "It's strange that nobody minds but us, isn't it? I cried at first--and then I thought that it would be happier if it wasn't lonely and empty, poor dear--and then, it was such a beautiful day, that I forgot to be unhappy." The man bestowed a wretched smile on her. "You hardly conveyed the impression of unrelieved gloom as you came around that corner," he assured her. "I--I haven't a very good memory for being unhappy," Daphne confessed remorsefully, a lovely and guilty rose staining her to her brow at the memory of that exultant chant. He threw back his head with a sudden shout of laughter. "These are glad tidings! I'd rather find a pagan than a Puritan at Green Gardens any day. Let's both have a poor memory. Do you mind if I smoke?" "No," she replied, "but do you mind if I ask you what you are doing here?" "Not a bit." He lit the stubby brown pipe, curving his hand dexterously to shelter it from the little breeze. He had the most beautiful hands that she had ever seen, slim and brown and fine--they looked as though they would be miraculously strong--and miraculously gentle. "I came to see--I came to see whether there was 'honey still for tea,' Mistress Dryad!" "Honey--for tea?" she echoed wonderingly; "was that why you were looking at the hive?" He puffed meditatively, "Well--partly. It's a quotation from a poem. Ever read Rupert Brooke?" "Oh, yes, yes." Her voice tripped in its eagerness. "I know one by heart-- "'If I should die think only this of me: (That there's some corner of a foreign field (That is forever England. There shall be--" He cut in on the magical little voice roughly.