"You poor little thing," he murmurs tenderly. "But it was very silly, and another time do not let a few miserable scruples overrule your better judgment. After all, Elizabeth is no great loss, but it is always unwise and unnecessary to give yourself away. There! I have done my lecture, come and kiss me." She flies into his arms. "It is terrible when you are annoyed with me, Carol. I should like you to think everything I do or say perfection. But then we cannot have all we want in life, and especially such a delightful life as ours. Do you know, however deeply you love, however constant you may prove, you can never realise your ideal. It exists alone in the realms of fancy; it is as unsubstantial as a dream--in fact, it is a dream!" "Have I disappointed you then?" he asks, with a wounded look. "Oh, no," raising her eyebrows at the bare idea. "I meant it just the other way--that I have failed to please you in everything. An ideal has no fault, and I appear full of errors. An ideal is something good, holy, perfect. I am bad, unreasonable, foolish." "You certainly have a way of making a fellow feel a cur without meaning it." "Have I?" says Eleanor simply. "Do you ever long to be back in London?" asks Quinton suddenly. "No--a thousand times no! It is a city of destruction, a hell of iniquity, Satan and the Savoy, his satellites Giddy Mounteagle, and----" "_Me_!" "Carol," with deep reproach in her tone, "though my life here with you is one which the 'Elizabeths' of Society shun and condemn, I believe, in the peaceful atmosphere, the blessed quiet, and sweet unfretful days, I have been a better woman. When I think of the daily quarrels in Richmond, the frivolous worldly conversations of Giddy and her set, it soothes all suspicion of regret in my heart. Love is my only law, and this is described as chief among virtues." "Then you are happy. I have brought some solace and light into your days, Eleanor? If I died to-morrow, or was lost from sight, you would look back and say: 'He gave me my dearest hours, my most treasured memories. He brought me from the slough of despond to the sunshine of the east.'" "Yes," she murmurs, quoting her favourite song: "If you've heard the East a-callin', You won't never 'eed naught else." She snatches up her guitar with the light laugh of a girl. "No, you won't 'eed nothin' else, but them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees, an' the tinkly temple bells." "Come out for a ride," says Carol, "now it is cooler." Eleanor's face brightens, her eyes glow. He goes so frequently alone, never even telling her the direction he has taken, and answering shortly when questioned. His suggestion meets with her highest approval.