He talked, having a willing listener--she laughed at him for a chatterbox. He had long fits of silence--she tried to enter into his dreams. Sometimes he was moody and troubled; and she knew why, and blamed herself for his self-reproach; sometimes, and that most often, they drifted soul to soul on a halcyon tide, and let the world go, and forgot everything but themselves and the rapture of living. And they met and met; and still were faithful to their platonic compact. It was pretty to mark their idyll; but Nature, while she hung them with flowers, was for ever a little impatient of their content. Nobody interfered with them; their intimacy was encouraged rather than suspected; the world conspired for their ruin. They were so little put to it to practise any duplicity, that their consciences almost came to acquit them of the necessity for it. In company they were called upon to display no greater decorum than good taste would have imposed upon a betrothed couple; and elsewhere, on the strength of that mutual understanding, they could consort in honest seeming, as if no guilty thought were at their hearts. And, indeed, there was none in Isabella’s--a child of seventeen, and in love. Guilt is for criminals, who work the other way and through hate of their kind. Fanchette’s soul should have been the guilty one. One day Tiretta took a queer object from his pocket. It was down in the deep gardens, and they were alone together again. “Do you see that?” he said. It was a little white slipper, woefully grubby. “If you please, Bonbec,” she answered. It was her name for him, quaint in its underlying confidence, but betraying nothing to chance ears. “Well, do you not recognise it?” “No. Stay----” she laughed and flushed. “Is it really the recovered relic of that day?” “Relic?--indeed it is.” “Horrible dirty little thing!” “May I keep it?” “O, Bonbec!” “That and the flower--a priceless pair.” “Priceless, indeed. What presents I make you!” “I gave Bissy gold for this.” “O, then, it is invaluable!” “Lady, I have slept with it every night under my pillow.” “I should at least have pulled off the heel if I had been you.” “Tell me, may I keep it?” “I wish I might give you something worth your taking, Bonbec.” “Saving yourself, I could wish no dearer gifts. They speak heaven to me--yes, the little soiled slipper and the little crumpled flower. So much so that, in fairness, I want to make you as inestimable a gift in return. Isabel, will you take my pot of basil, and cherish it for me?” “I will love to--dearly I will.” “It is so inconsiderable a thing, it would pass for a mere compliment. I have a strange feeling about it--now do not wonder why, or whence it comes--that its flowering will coincide with our loves’ triumph; that it waits to be the symbol of our bridal. Is not that an odd superstition--irrational, meaningless; and yet somehow I cannot shake it off.” He smiled; but his eyes were serious. She answered as movingly: