The darling! And, dash it, if they were going to have vines to a pavilion, why didn't they _have_ vines? "Do you know," she said, "I don't believe you _do_ believe any of these awful things could be true about me,"--her voice quickened here--"and do you know I just think it's lovely of you! I _do_!" And her dear voice dropped like the softer notes of a what's-its-name. Her hands lay in her lap and she was studying me in the kindest, sweetest way! And I wanted to tell her how good she was and how much I loved her, don't you know, but just then, behind the pavilion, came the gardener. He was talking to one of his assistants about slugs--_dash_ slugs! And then her face lighted again as though she would speak and I leaned eagerly toward her--waiting, expectant. "When Arthur made his court at--" she began, and, by Jove, my jolly heart sank. If she would only drop Arthur and give me a chance to make _my_ court, dash it! "Camelot, you know," she went on, and I almost groaned. What did _I_ care that he came a lot? Perhaps, now, if I could divert her mind-- "Oh, I say, you know," I broke in interestedly, "what was it you were--er--humming--just now, don't you know." "Vivian's song--don't you remember it?" I tried to think, but I couldn't seem to place her, though I knew the whole line of 'em back to Lottie Gilson. I finally had to shake my head. She smiled. "Don't you know," she said: "'I think you hardly know the tender rhyme Of "trust me not at all or all in all."'" She was right! I didn't know the jolly thing, that was a fact, but somehow I liked the swing of it. She went on, and struck me with another remark. By Jove, she seemed to have forgotten about the jolly song and I was devilish glad, for _I_ had rather hear her _talk_, don't you know. "'In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours--'" "_If?_" I ejaculated reproachfully, hitching nearer. But she only smiled, and continued her remark: "'Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.'" "Oh!" I uttered. For, by Jove, she had said it--the thing I had felt all the time and couldn't express; the something that had been with me all along in connection with herself. And here _she_ had the jolly idea pat upon her tongue! I just blinked at her admiringly--didn't dare speak, you know; afraid I'd break the thread of what's-its-name. She went on telling me something about a lover's lute, and it was hard not to speak _then_, for I did so want to ask what a jolly lute was. And then some remark about specks in garnered fruit--here her line of thought had been changed, I knew, by some remark of the gardener outside: something about worms and the orchard. However, I just chirped up a nod and listened as attentively as though she had gone right on. She was busy with her hair now, but with her mind still on the worm, murmured abstractedly: "'That rotting inward slowly moulders all.'"