"All the more reason that we should wait," she interrupts, quickly. "Yes; but I ought not to have spoken to you; I'd no business to steal your heart." "You did not steal it," she says, nestling up to his side. "I presented it to you, free, gratis." Where is the man who could resist such an appeal! Away went duty, prudence, and every other laudable consideration to the winds; and Herbert Pryme straightway became insanely and blissfully oblivious of his own poverty, of Mr. Miller's wealth, and of everything else upon earth and under the sun that was not entirely and idiotically delightful and ecstatic. "You will do as I tell you?" whispers Beatrice. "Of course I will," answers her lover. And then there is a complete stagnation of the power of speech on both sides for the space of five minutes, during which the clock ticking steadily on at the far end of the corridor has things entirely its own way. "There is another couple who are happy," says Herbert Pryme, breaking the charmed silence at length, and indicating, by a sign, two people who are wandering slowly down the garden. Beatrice Miller, following the direction of his eyes, sees Maurice Kynaston and Vera. "Those two?" she exclaims. "Oh dear, no! They are not happy--not in our way. Miss Nevill is engaged to his brother, you know." "Umph! if I were Sir John Kynaston, I would look after my brother then." "Herbert! what _can_ you mean?" cries Beatrice, opening her eyes in astonishment. "Why, Captain Kynaston is supposed to be engaged to Mrs. Romer; at any rate, she is desperately in love with him." "Yes, everybody knows that: but is he in love with her?" "Herbert, I am sure you must be mistaken!" persists Beatrice, eagerly. "Perhaps I am. Never mind, little woman," kissing her lightly; "I only said they looked happy. If you will take the trouble to remark them through the day, you will, perhaps, be struck by the same blissful aspect that I have noticed. If they are happy, it won't last long. Why should not one be glad to see other people enjoying themselves? Let them be happy whilst they can." Herbert Pryme was right. Maurice and Vera wandering side by side along the broad gravel walks in the wintry gardens were happy--without so much as venturing to wonder what it was that made them so. "I did not want to hunt to-day," Maurice is saying; "I thought I would stop at home and talk to you." "That was kind of you," answers Vera, with a smile. If she had known him better, she would have been more sensible of the compliment implied. To give up a day's hunting for a woman's sake is what very few keen sports-men have been known to do; the attraction must be great indeed. "You will go out, of course, on Monday, the day the hounds meet here? I should like to see you on a horse."