"Certainly," was his prompt assent. When Saint X's morality police should see him leaving the grounds with her, they would be silenced as to this particular occurrence at least. After a few minutes of awkward commonplaces, he and Henrietta went up the lawns, leaving Del there. At the last point from which the end of the garden could be seen, he dropped behind, turned, saw her in exactly the same position, the fountain and the water lilies before her, the center and climax of those stretches of white-and-gold blossoms. The sunshade rested lightly upon her shoulder, and its azure concave made a harmonious background for her small, graceful head with the airily plumed hat set so becomingly upon those waves of dead-gold hair. He waved to her; but she made no sign of having seen. When Henrietta returned, Adelaide had resumed her reverie and her slow march round the fountain. Henrietta watched with a quizzical expression for some time before saying: "If I hadn't discouraged him, I believe he'd have blurted it all out to me--all he came to say to you." Del was still absent-minded as she answered: "It's too absurd. People are so censorious, so low-minded." "They are," rejoined Mrs. Hastings. "And, I'm sorry to say, as a rule they're right." The curve of Del's delicate eyebrows and of her lips straightened. "All the trouble comes through our having nothing to do," pursued Henrietta, disregarding those signs that her "meddling" was unwelcome. "The idle women! We ought to be busy at something useful--you and I and the rest of 'em. Then we'd not be tempted to kill time doing things that cause gossip, and may cause scandal." Seeing that Adelaide was about to make some curt retort, she added: "Now, don't pretend, Del. You know, yourself, that they're always getting into mischief and getting the men into mischief." "Don't you ever feel, Henrietta, that we're simply straws in the strong wind?" "Fate sometimes does force mischief on men and women," was Henrietta's retort, "and it ceases to be mischief--becomes something else, I'm not sure just what. But usually fate has nothing to do with the matter. It's we ourselves that course for mischief, like a dog for rabbits." Del, in sudden disdain of evasion, faced her with, "Well, Henrietta, what of it?" Mrs. Hastings elevated and lowered her shoulders. "Simply that you're seeing too much of Ross--too much for his good, if not for your own." Del's sunshade was revolving impatiently. "It's as plain as black on white," continued Mrs. Hastings, "that he's madly in love with you--in love as only an experienced man can be with an experienced and developed woman." "Well, what of it?" Del's tone was hostile, defiant. "You can't abruptly stop seeing him. Everyone'd say you and he were meeting secretly." "Really!"