“Stop! stop this minute! Oh, Louis, please. Oh, Lizabeth, make him stop. That thing always drives me perfectly crazy, and he knows it.” “All right. It’s done. I’ve finished. I’m much more merciful than Poe. I only wanted to point out that if that was your idea of heaven, it wasn’t mine.” “Oh, good gracious!” cried Agneta suddenly. She sprang up and darted to the door. “What’s the matter?” “I’ve absolutely and entirely forgotten to order any food for to-morrow. Any food whatever. All right, Louis, you won’t laugh when you have to lunch on bread and water, and Lizabeth takes the afternoon train back to her horrible Harford place, because we have starved her.” Louis gave a resigned sigh and leaned comfortably back against an empty chair. For some moments he gazed dreamily at Elizabeth. Then he said: “How nicely your hair shines. I like you all white and gold like that. If Browning had known you he needn’t have written. ‘What’s become of all the gold, used to hang and brush their bosoms.’ You’ve got your share.” “But my hair isn’t golden at all, Louis,” said Elizabeth. Louis frowned. “Yes, it is,” he said, “it’s gold without the dross—gold spiritualised. And you ought to know better than to pretend. You know as well as I do that your hair is a thing of beauty. The real joy for ever sort. It’s no credit to you. You didn’t make it. And you ought to be properly grateful for being allowed to walk about with a real live halo. Why should you pretend? If it wasn’t pretence, you wouldn’t take so much trouble about doing it. You’d just twist it up on a single hairpin.” “It wouldn’t stay up,” said Elizabeth. “I wish it wouldn’t. Oh, Lizabeth, won’t you let it down just for once?” “No, I won’t,” said Elizabeth, with pleasant firmness. Louis fell into a gloom. His brown eyes darkened. “I don’t see why,” he said; and Elizabeth laughed at him. “Oh, Louis, will you ever grow up?” Louis assumed an air of dignity. “My last book,” he said, “was not only very well reviewed by competent and appreciative persons, but I would have you to know that it also brought me in quite a large and solid cheque. And my poems have had what is known as a _succès d’estime_, which means that you and your publisher lose money, but the critics say nice things. These facts, my dear madam, all point to my having emerged from the nursery.” “Go on emerging, Louis,” said Elizabeth, with a little nod of encouragement. Louis appeared to be plunged in thought. He frowned, made calculations upon his fingers, and finally inquired: “How many times have I proposed to you, Lizabeth?” Elizabeth looked at him with amusement. “I really never counted. Do you want me to?” “No. I think I’ve got it right. I think it must be eight times, because I know I began when I was twenty, and I don’t think I’ve missed a year since. This,” said Louis, getting on to his knees and coming nearer, “this will be number nine.” “Oh, Louis, don’t,” said Elizabeth. “And why not?”