She regarded him with renewed interest. It was a little disappointing to discover that he followed the same occupation as William; she had placed him in her thoughts amid more romantic surroundings. The factory, despite its financial magnificence, struck her as rather sordid. He became aware of the criticism in her eyes and smiled in some amusement. "I'm just a paid man," he volunteered. "Nothing very gorgeous about my position." "But that's an advantage," she said, and smiled in sympathy. "At least, you can leave." "True. I never thought of it like that. My principal concern has been to evade leaving; it has loomed so very imminent at times. I say, let's sit on this stile in the shade of that jolly elm and talk. You're not in a hurry, are you?" "No," answered Prudence, who knew that she ought to be at home sewing in the morning-room, knew also that she had not the smallest intention of going back now. "I'm not in any hurry. It's--pleasant here." "Yes, isn't it? I don't think I have ever seen prettier country than this. You were gathering primroses?" "Just a few late ones." She held the bunch up and surveyed their drooping beauty. "It's almost a pity; they looked so sweet in the hedge." "They look sweeter where they are," he said quite sincerely, though obviously without sufficient reason for the comparison; the primroses were so unmistakably dying. "Put one in my button-hole, will you? It will recall a pleasant morning." She complied without hesitation, laughing when the task was accomplished because the flower drooped its head. "A bit shy," he commented. "It is going to raise its face and smile at me when I put it in water, later." "Will you really do that?" she asked. "Why, of course. You don't suppose I would allow a gift of yours to fade into a memory?" "But it will fade," she insisted, "in spite of your efforts. All these pleasant things fade so swiftly." He turned more directly towards her and looked into her eyes. She had taken off her hat, and sat with her shoulders against the tree and looked steadily back at him. "Yes," he admitted; "that's uncomfortably true. But something remains." "Something?" Her eyes questioned him, wide childlike eyes with a hint of womanhood lurking in their blue depths. He drew a little nearer to her. "Something," he repeated--"subtle, intangible--an emotion, a memory... Call it what you will... Some recurring brightness which is to the human soul what the sunlight is to the earth--a thousand harmonies spring from the one source. My primrose will fade, but for me it can't die; nor will the kind hand that gathered it and placed it where it is be forgotten either. There are things one doesn't forget." "I suppose there are," acquiesced Prudence, her thoughts by some odd twist reverting to William's table manners. "Sometimes one would like to forget." "I shouldn't," he averred--"not this, at least." She roused herself with a laugh.