‘Down now! Down now! Down!’ cries she, laughing. She catches the handsome brute round the neck, and looks into his eyes. “Does he love his own missis, then? Then down! It is really down now, sir. Not another jump. See’—glancing ruefully at her pretty white serge dress—‘the stains you have made here already.’ How soft, how delicate is her voice, how full of affection for the dog! Surely, ‘There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple.’ Wyndham comes forward very casually from amongst the bushes. ‘Oh—you!’ cries she, colouring delightfully, but showing no embarrassment—he would have liked a little embarrassment. He tells himself that the want of it quite proves his theory that she regards him merely as a good friend—no more. ‘Yes; I have run down for an hour or so. You’—looking round him—‘have been quite a good fairy to my flowers, I see.’ ‘Oh, your flowers!’ says she gaily, yet shyly too. Her air is of the happiest. She has, indeed, been a different creature since Wyndham had assured her a few months ago of Moore’s actual arrival in Australia. ‘Why, they are mine now, aren’t they? You have given them to me with this.’ She threw out her arms in a little appropriative way towards the garden. ‘In a way—yes.’ He pauses. Passion is rising within him. ‘Come in,’ says he abruptly. ‘There is something I must say to you.’ The pretty drawing-room is bright with flowers, and there is a certain air of daintiness—a charm—about the whole place that tells of the refinement of its owner. It is not Miss Manning who has given this delicate cosiness to it—Miss Manning, good soul, who is now in the kitchen, very proud in the fond belief that she is helping Mrs. Denis to make marmalade. No! In every cluster of early roses, in every bunch of sweet-smelling daffodils, in the pushing of the chairs here, and the screens there, Wyndham can see the touch of Ella’s hand. In the far-off window, on a little table, stands the dressing-case that he had sent her after his interview with Moore. It is open, and some of the contents—what remains of them—with their silver tops, are shining in the rays of the sun. The girl’s glance catches them, and all at once the merry touch upon her lips dies away, and gloom settles on her brow. The lost bottles, the battered and dismantled case, seem to Wyndham but the broken links of a broken life, and a thrill of pity urges him to instant speech. ‘Don’t look like that, Ella.’ And then, with a burst of passion and grief: ‘My darling, what does it matter?’ And then again, almost without a stop, ‘Ella, will you marry me?’ For a moment she looks at him as if not understanding. Then a most wonderful light springs into her eyes. But when he would go to her and take her in his arms, she puts out hers, and almost imperiously forbids him. ‘No,’ says she clearly, if a little wildly perhaps. ‘But why—why? Oh, this is nonsense! You know—you must have known for a long time—that I love you.’