He flung out of the room in a huff. His horse had been waiting for half-an-hour, and it was later than usual when he joined Gwendolen in the Park. Her face lit up, and from his own all sign of vexation had vanished. “I’d given you up,” she said. “I thought you weren’t able to come.” “Would you have been disappointed if I hadn’t?” “Awfully!” “You make me regret more than ever that I’m not twenty-five,” he said, without any beating about the bush. “Why?” “Because if I were I should promptly ask you to marry me.” “If you were I should probably refuse you,” she smiled. “I wonder what you mean by that?” They walked their horses side by side, and the Canon was seized with an unaccountable shyness. It was by a real effort of will that at last he forced himself to speak. “I suppose it never struck you that I took more than common pleasure in our conversations. But when I left you I was always seized with despair. I realized that my heart had remained as young as ever it was, but you never ceased to see in me a man old enough to be your father. Do you know that I’m fifty?” “I never asked myself what your age was. I never felt that you were any older than I.” She answered nervously, looking straight in front of her. The Canon shot a sidelong glance in her direction and saw that her cheeks were flaming. He recovered his courage at once. Faint heart, he knew, never won fair lady. “Gwendolen, I sometimes think that you have worked a miracle, for by your side I feel as young as the summer morning. What can the years matter when I have the spirit and the strength of a youth! I admire you and I love you. Do you think me very ridiculous?” She shook her head, but did not speak. He put his hand lightly on hers. “Gwendolen, will you be my wife?” She looked up with a little laugh that was almost hysterical. She did not answer directly. “I’ll race you to the end,” she said. Without a word, smiling, the Canon put the spurs to his horse; and they galloped up the Row at a speed which was altogether beyond reason. The policeman on his beat watched with gaping mouth the strange spectacle of a comely young woman and an ecclesiastical dignitary, no longer in his first youth but handsome too, peltering towards the Achilles Statue as fast as they could go. Gwendolen’s horse kept somewhat ahead, but the Canon would not give way. Again he clapped his spurs to the straining flanks. It seemed to him, romantically, that he rode for a great prize, and in his excitement he could have shouted at the top of his voice. They reached the end neck and neck, and when they stopped, panting, the horses were white with lather. There was no longer a shadow of humility in the Canon’s breezy manner. “And now for my answer,” he cried, gaily. “What about Lionel?” she smiled, blushing. “Oh, Lionel can go to the dickens.” * * * * *