"You have given me no white rose, I see," said Archie, in an unsteady voice, "so I am not compelled to keep silence. May I speak?" "No--no--oh, no!" She had finished fastening those obstinate flowers with a pin, and they had revenged themselves by wounding her finger with a thorn. "Oh! Oh!" "Miss Pethram, what's the matter? Oh, have you hurt your finger?" "Yes, but it's not very sore." "Why, it's bleeding," he cried in alarm, taking her hand; "let me bind my handkerchief round it." "Oh, no!" "Oh, yes! You must obey your doctor. There! that's better." He still held her hand, and before she was aware of what he was doing, bent down suddenly and kissed it. "Oh!" she cried, blushing, "you must not do that." "Kaituna!" "Mr. Maxwell! If you say another word I'll go back to my chaperon." "But----" "I won't hear another word! So there!" Archie looked down disconsolately, not knowing what to say, when suddenly he heard a gay laugh in the distance, and on raising his head saw a white figure flitting away across the lawn towards the sun-dial. He hesitated a moment, and then laughed softly. "Faint heart never won fair lady." Certainly nobody could accuse Archie Maxwell of being faint-hearted, for he ran after his sweet enemy with the utmost courage. When he reached her she was standing by the sun-dial, and the two spectators on the terrace saw the two actors suddenly appear on the stage. One spectator--a woman--frowned; the other--a man--laughed. "Don't go, Mrs. Belswin," said Toby, seeing she was about to rise. "We are having such a jolly conversation." "That's a very artful remark, but it doesn't deceive me." "Artful! I assure you, Mrs. Belswin, I am the most unsophisticated of men--a perfect child!" "So I should judge from your description of London life," said Mrs. Belswin, drily, leaning back in her chair. "But perhaps you are not aware, Mr. Clendon, that I am Miss Pethram's chaperon?" "Happy Miss Pethram. I wish you were mine." "I'm afraid the task of keeping you in order would be beyond my powers." "Do you think so?" observed Toby, sentimentally. He was a young man who would have flirted with his grandmother in default of any one better, and Mrs. Belswin being a handsome woman, this fickle youth improved the shining hours. Mrs. Belswin, however, saw through him with ease, not having gone through the world without learning something of the male sex, so she laughed gaily, and turned the conversation with feminine tact. "You are a good friend, Mr. Clendon." "I am! I am everything that is good!" "Your trumpeter is dead, I see." "Yes, poor soul! He died from overwork."