"Delphicums and larkspurs," said Mr. Polly. "They used to be in the park at Port Burdock. "Floriferous corner," he added approvingly. He put an arm over the back of the seat, and assumed a more comfortable attitude. He glanced at Miriam, who was sitting in a lax, thoughtful pose with her eyes on the flowers. She was wearing her old dress, she had not had time to change, and the blue tones of her old dress brought out a certain warmth in her skin, and her pose exaggerated whatever was feminine in her rather lean and insufficient body, and rounded her flat chest delusively. A little line of light lay along her profile. The afternoon was full of transfiguring sunshine, children were playing noisily in the adjacent sandpit, some Judas trees were brightly abloom in the villa gardens that bordered the Recreation Ground, and all the place was bright with touches of young summer colour. It all merged with the effect of Miriam in Mr. Polly's mind. Her thoughts found speech. "One did ought to be happy in a shop," she said with a note of unusual softness in her voice. It seemed to him that she was right. One did ought to be happy in a shop. Folly not to banish dreams that made one ache of townless woods and bracken tangles and red-haired linen-clad figures sitting in dappled sunshine upon grey and crumbling walls and looking queenly down on one with clear blue eyes. Cruel and foolish dreams they were, that ended in one's being laughed at and made a mock of. There was no mockery here. "A shop's such a respectable thing to be," said Miriam thoughtfully. "_I_ could be happy in a shop," he said. His sense of effect made him pause. "If I had the right company," he added. She became very still. Mr. Polly swerved a little from the conversational ice-run upon which he had embarked. "I'm not such a blooming Geezer," he said, "as not to be able to sell goods a bit. One has to be nosy over one's buying of course. But I shall do all right." He stopped, and felt falling, falling through the aching silence that followed. "If you get the right company," said Miriam. "I shall get that all right." "You don't mean you've got someone--" He found himself plunging. "I've got someone in my eye, this minute," he said. "Elfrid!" she said, turning on him. "You don't mean--" Well, _did_ he mean? "I do!" he said. "Not reely!" She clenched her hands to keep still. He took the conclusive step. "Well, you and me, Miriam, in a little shop--with a cat and a canary--" He tried too late to get back to a hypothetical note. "Just suppose it!" "You mean," said Miriam, "you're in love with me, Elfrid?" What possible answer can a man give to such a question but "Yes!"