“Rather like it, I think,” the other answered with a laugh.

The dinner was a very quiet business—­a couple of steady-going country gentlemen, with their wives and daughters, a son or two more or less dashing and sportsmanlike in style, the rector and his wife, Captain Sedgewick and Miss Nowell.  Gilbert had to take one of the portly matrons in to dinner, and found himself placed at some distance from Miss Nowell during the repast; but he was able to make up for this afterwards, when he slipped out of the dining-room some time before the rest of the gentlemen, and found Marian seated at the piano, playing a dreamy reverie of Goria’s, while the other ladies were gathered in a little knot, discussing the last village scandal.

He went over to the piano and stood by her while she played, looking fondly down at the graceful head, and the white hands gliding gently over the keys.  He did not disturb her by much talk:  it was quite enough happiness for him to stand there watching her as she played.  Later, when a couple of whist-tables had been established, and the brilliantly-lighted room had grown hot, these two sat together at one of the open windows, looking out at the moonlit lawn; one of them supremely happy, and yet with a kind of undefined sense that this supreme happiness was a dangerous thing—­a thing that it would be wise to pluck out of his heart, and have done with.

“My holiday is very nearly over, Miss Nowell,” Gilbert Fenton said by and by.  “I shall have to go back to London and the old commercial life, the letter-writing and interview-giving, and all that kind of thing.”

“Your sister said you were very fond of the counting-house, Mr. Fenton,” she answered lightly.  “I daresay, if you would only confess the truth, you are heartily tired of the country, and will be delighted to resume your business life.”

“I should never be tired of Lidford.”

“Indeed! and yet it is generally considered such a dull place.”

“It has not been so to me.  It will always be a shining spot in my memory, different and distinct from all other places.”

She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnest tone, and their eyes met—­his full of tenderness, hers only shy and surprised.  It was not then that the words he had to speak could be spoken, and he let the conversation drift into a general discussion of the merits of town or country life.  But he was determined that the words should be spoken very soon.

He went to the cottage next day, between three and four upon a drowsy summer afternoon, and was so fortunate as to find Marian sitting under one of the walnut-trees at the end of the garden reading a novel, with her faithful Skye terrier in attendance.  He seated himself on a low garden-chair by her side, and took the book gently from her hand.

“I have come to spoil your afternoon’s amusement,” he said.  “I have not many days more to spend in Lidford, you know, and I want to make the most of a short time.”