“Yes,” she answered.  “And only an angel would be good enough for you.”

“My sweetest, your flattery is too delicious.  It will make me vain and all sorts of bad things,” said Edgar with a happy smile, finding this innocent worship one of the most charming tributes ever brought to the shrine of his lordly manhood by woman.

“It is not flattery:  you deserve more,” said Leam.  Then lapsing into her old manner of checked utterance, she added, “I cannot talk, but you should be told.”

Edgar thought he had been told pretty often by women the virtues which they had seen in him.  Whether they saw what was or what they imagined was not to the point.  If love creates, so does vanity, and of the two the latter has the more permanence.

After this there was a long pause.  It was as if one chapter had been finished, one cup emptied.  Then said Edgar suddenly, “And you will be happy at the Hill?” lightly touching her face again with the lemon-plant.

“With you anywhere,” she answered.

“And my mother?  Do you remember when you said one day you would not like to be my mother’s daughter?  Ah, little puss, you did not know what you were saying; and now tell me, do you object to be my mother’s daughter?”

Leam looked grave.  “I had not thought of that,” she said, a certain shadow of distress crossing her face.

“Does the idea displease you?” he asked, in his turn grave.

“No,” she answered after a short silence.  “But I only thought of you.  Shall I be Mrs. Harrowby’s daughter?”

“Of course.  How should you not?” he laughed.

“And Miss Josephine’s too—­two mothers?—­mother and daughter both my mothers?  I cannot understand,” said poor Leam, a little hopelessly.

“Never mind the intricacies now.  You are to be my wife:  that is all we need remember.  Is it not?” bending toward her tenderly.

“Yes,” echoed Leam with a sigh of relief.  “That is all we need remember.”

So the day passed in these broken episodes, these delightful little scenes of the fooling and flattery of love, till the evening came, when Edgar was obliged to go up to the seven-o’clock dinner at the Hill.  He might sit with Leam, as he had done, for nearly six hours in the garden, without more comment than that which servants naturally make among themselves, but if he remained through the evening he would publish more than he cared to publish at the present moment.  So he had arranged to go back to the family dinner at seven, and thus keep his mother and sisters hoodwinked for a few hours longer.