The time would pass by in such innocent pleasures upon rapid wings, until their wedding-day came, with the budding leaves in tree and hedge, and the timid out-peeping of delicate spring flowers. Then the genial old vicar would make them man and wife, in the sacred gloom of the familiar church, while the wedding march pealed forth from the organ, and the joy-bells clashed in the ancient Norman tower. Afterwards they would go abroad for some months, and wander through old-world cities, among the treasures of dead ages--returning when they were weary, to lead quiet and useful lives under their own roof-tree, and among the friends of their early days. Yes!--he would go back to Garsworth, and try to realize these delightful dreams, but--Beaumont---- At this moment--as if in answer to his thoughts--a knock came to the door, and Beaumont entered--scattering at once the cloud-built castles in which Reginald's dreamy fancy had been indulging. His quick eye at once saw that the young man had eaten no breakfast--and he laughed gaily as he removed his hat and sat down near the fire. "Don't feel well this morning?" he said lightly. "What a humbug you are, Blake--a little dissipation should be nothing for a healthy young country fellow like you." "That's just it," replied Reginald, with some animation, slipping Una's letter into his pocket. "I am a country fellow, accustomed to lead a quiet simple life--and not an artificial existence." "Oh, you'll soon get used to it." "No doubt, but I'm not going to make the attempt." "Oh, indeed!" observed Beaumont, concealing his annoyance. "So you intend to return to that dead-and-alive hole of a Garsworth?" "Hole, as you think it," replied the young man, with some warmth, "it has been my home for many a long year, and I have grown to love it; besides, you forget--I go back to be married." "But surely not yet?" objected Beaumont, earnestly. "Your father has not been dead very long? Besides, you must have a fling as a bachelor before you become Benedict, the married man." "I've had enough 'fling,' as you call it," said Reginald, coldly, "and I don't like it--this incessant high-pressure style of life is not to my taste, so I am going away from it." "I'm afraid I cannot leave Town, just now," said the artist, with a frown, feeling his prey was slipping through his fingers. Blake looked at him in surprise. "I do not want you to leave Town," he observed, in a dignified manner. "There is no necessity for you to accompany me by any manner of means--you have your own life and your own friends, I have mine, so there is nothing in common between us in any way. You have certainly been very kind, in offering to assist me as a singer, but, as I do not require your assistance now, of course I will not trouble you. No doubt I have taken up a considerable portion of your time since I have been in London, but I am willing to repay any loss you may have sustained, in whatever way you suggest."