We have it on the authority of a gentleman who lived at Stratford-on-Avon that jealousy is green-eyed. If so, my eyes must have resembled emeralds as they followed the pair. Of the two candidates for her smiles, which was the favourite? During breakfast I fancied it might be Angelo; while escorting her to the cathedral I felt certain it was I; now once more my rival's star seemed in the ascendant. "And probably," I thought, "she will smile sweetly on me at her return. Verily woman is an enigma!" "What are you thinking of?" asked my uncle, as I took a seat beside him. "Of inditing a sonnet on the mutability of women." "Ah! take my advice, and never attempt to understand a woman or her motives. You will never succeed." "Daphne's motives are pretty obvious," I replied, glancing darkly at the distant figure of the artist. My uncle's only reply was a smile, that resembled his opinion of women, inasmuch as it was very oracular and quite impossible to understand, and he resumed his reading of Goethe's _Faust_--a work of which he was extremely fond, carrying it about with him wherever he went, and favouring us hourly with quotations appropriate to any state of circumstances we happened to be in. Presently he looked up from his reading, and said: "Has it never occurred to you that Daphne may have a motive in giving a little encouragement to Angelo--a motive, totally free from any love for him?" "I am afraid I don't understand." "Did you not--er--well, make love to her once?" "Yes," I said gruffly. "I did. But it's more than three years ago." "And you have not breathed a word of love to her since then." "Certainly not," I said. "Very well, then. Supposing she wants to find out whether you still retain your love for her, how is she to do it? Do you expect her to ask you outright? No? Well, one way of finding out is to seem to encourage a rival and note the effect on you. I don't say it's a noble way, but it's a woman's way. And if she sees that you are jealous she can draw her own conclusions." "Do you honestly mean that that is her motive in encouraging that fool of an artist?" I cried eagerly. My uncle put up his hand. "How do I know? Woman is an enigma, to which I don't pretend to know the proper answer. I merely make a suggestion." That I found the suggestion palatable requires no saying, but if I accepted it I was immediately confronted by the further question why Daphne should wish to know whether I still loved her, and therein I found matter for not a little meditation.