She was quite sure, indeed, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to ask him the simple question--until she came up to it--then, she was not so sure, nor did it appear so easy. In fact, it was distinctly not easy--it was to be approached gradually, and by indirection--and, may be, not to be arrived at that afternoon. It was not so simple a question: are you married?--at least, not when Sir Edward Parkington was concerned. He had a way about him that did not encourage familiarity; a certain set look of the mouth, a gleam of the eye--and the subject was pursued no further. The turf deadened her footsteps, and she stood, for a moment, looking down upon him, before he raised his eyes. Instantly, he was up and bowing low. "Your pardon," he said; "I was dreaming; I did not hear you." "Dreaming--of what?" she asked. "Of nothing. Dreams that were without form or color." "Can one dream nothing?" she inquired, knowing well he equivocated--there had been a frown on his face as she approached. "One always dreams nothing--'such stuff as dreams are made of.' Moreover, the place and the hour impel it," and he swung his hand around him. "It is a fine old place," she said, seeing he would shift the talk. He nodded. "A fine place, though I should not call it old, at least, to us English." "All things are relative; it is old to this country, which is new. Just as you are Sir Edward Parkington and a great man, _here_." "While in England, you mean," he laughed, "I am only one of a vast number--an insignificant atom among the nobility." "Yes--and _I_, that am not even noble, am, here, the toast of a Province." "In which England joins!" with a bow. "I was proving a proposition, sir, not seeking a compliment." "It is proven," he said. "One will admit anything, grant anything, on such an afternoon as this, and with such surroundings; I would give a man my last shilling, a woman--if she were pretty--my--my soul." "The usual way--the man would get something, the woman nothing. No woman wants your soul, even were it yours to give." "Or even if I had a soul," he appended. "Oh, no!" she said. "You do not get me to arguing on that topic. No one knows, so every one believes what his conscience dictates. I am orthodox, and go along with the Church. I do not care what you believe, and I do not want to know. So far as I am concerned, every one can take care of his own hereafter--he alone will have to pay penalty, if he is in error." He listened with a curious smile. "A bit advanced, my lady, for all your orthodoxy. You best not tell your views abroad." "My views are for myself, alone. We women are supposed to have none--to stay put, as it were--and I am going to stay put; but I shall think what I please." She shrugged her shoulders, and laughed. "Goodness! what turned the talk to religion--neither of us has any to speak of." "And, hence, we may safely discuss it without offense to either--it is believers only who are intolerants."