The sun shines on our heads.  He has not much power yet, but great good-will.  And the air is almost as gentle as June.  We have left our own domain behind us, and have reached Mrs. Huntley’s white gate.  Through the bars I see the sheltered laurestines all ablow.

“May I wait for you here?” say I, with diffident urgency, reflecting hopefully, as I make the suggestion, on the wholesome effect, on the length of the interview that the knowledge of my being, flattening my nose against the bars of the gate all through it, must necessarily have.

Again he looks down, as if unwilling to meet my appealing eyes.

“I think not, Nancy,” he answers, reluctantly.  “You see, I cannot possibly tell how long I might be obliged to keep you waiting.”

“I do not mind waiting at all,” persist I, eagerly.  “I am not very impatient; I shall not expect you to be very quick, and” (going on very fast, to hinder him from the second refusal which I see hovering on his lips), “and it is not at all cold; just now you yourself said that you had felt many a chillier May-day, and I am so warmly wrapped up, pet!” (taking hold of one of his fingers, and making it softly travel up and down the fur of my thick coat).

He shakes his head, with a gesture unwilling, yet decided.

“No, Nancy, it could not be!  I had rather that you would go home.”

“I have no doubt you would!” say I, turning sharply and huffily away; then, with a sudden recollecting and repenting myself, “May I come back, then?” I say, meekly.

“Come and fetch you, I mean, after a time—­any long time that you like!”

“Will you?” he cries, with animation, the look of unwilling refusal vanishing from his face.  “Would you like? would not it be too much trouble?”

“Not at all! not at all!” reply I, affably.  “How soon, then?” (taking out my watch); “in half an hour?”

Again his face falls a little.

“I think it must be longer than that, Nancy.”

“An hour, then?” say I, lifting a lengthened countenance wistfully to his; “people may do a good deal in an hour, may not they?”

“Had not we better be on the safe side, and say an hour and a half?” suggests he, but somewhat apprehensively—­or I imagine so.  “I shall be sure not to keep you a minute then—­I do not relish the notion of my wife’s tramping up and down this muddy road all by herself.”

“And I do not relish the notion of my husband—­” return I, beginning to speak very fast, and then suddenly breaking off—­“Well, good-by!”

“Say, good-by, Roger,” cries he, catching my hand in detention, as I turn away.  “Nancy, if you knew how fond I have grown of my own name!  In despite of Tichborne, I think it lovely.”

I laugh.

“Good-by, Roger!”

He has opened the gate, and turned in.  I watch him, as he walks with long, quick steps, up the little, trim swept drive.  As I follow him with my eyes, a devil enters into me.  I cry—­