The history of this little ornament possesses enough irony to warrant a short digression. It used to hang in the window of a Midland toy-shop, and had made a pretty birthday gift from a young man deep in love to his betrothed. She wore it in her kerchief for ten years and sent it at last to her lover in London with some other trinkets not very valuable, but all of the same fresh beauty. At the bottom of the packet was a faded sprig of whitethorn. The young gentleman--not quite so young now--opened it as a London dawn empearled the city smoke. It had lain all day in his room neglected while the dice-box rattled like a skeleton at the feast of Love--a feast of pimps and blowsy carmine furies. The contents of the packet went with the last of his guineas, and at the division of the stake Mr. Vernon contemptuously accepted the brooch. The latter never troubled himself to take the ornament out of his pocket. Now once more it came back to Youth and Beauty. As she pinned it to her kerchief, Phyllida thanked him for his sweet thoughtfulness, and wondered if he would always remember this morning. By this time, Vernon had clambered down from his mountain top. Perhaps the brooch made his descent more easy. Yet I think he was sincere when he swore he would never forget. Anyway Phyllida believed him and so there is nothing more to be said. "When we are wed," she began, and startled him with such an abrupt disclosure of her dreams. "When we are wed, I think we will live in Hyde Park. Where is Hyde Park?" "On the confines of Kensington, my dear." "Yes, but where is Kensington?" "A mile or so Westward of Temple Bar." "I think we will live in Kensington." "Nay, prithee! would you have us die of dullness." "Is Kensington dull?" "'Tis very rustick. No! my charmer shall lodge in the Haymarket." Phyllida pouted. There was a Haymarket in the country town to which she made an occasional visit from the little village of Newton Candover, and she remembered it as a dusty spot not fit for a new pair of shoes. "I vow I should detest the Haymarket." "Nay, 'tis the gayest place, with hackney coaches passing to and fro all day. You shall sit at your window and all the fine ladies of rank and fashion will envy you." "And what will my Amor be doing?" "He will be looking over his angel's shoulder." "Then they'll envy me more than ever," said Phyllida with a contented laugh. Vernon pressed her hand and looked round quickly as a man will before he attempts the first kiss. But Phyllida drew back. "What shall we do when we are tired of sitting at the windows--if one could ever tire of anything so pleasant," she added with a sigh. "We'll call a hackney-coach and drive to Westminster Steps, to the river." "To the river? Now that will be most diverting." "And we'll hail the waterman with the most elegant wherry, and row up through the dusk to Vauxhall." Phyllida was staring at him with the round eyes of a child who listens to an old fairy-tale.