The flowers were gay in the Broad Walk, Flossie tried to be gay too; and called on him to admire their beauty.  They sat down together on a seat in the embrasure of a bed of chrysanthemums.  Flossie was interested in everything, in the chrysanthemums, in the weather and in the passers-by—­most particularly interested, he noticed, in the family groups.  Her black eyes, that glanced so restlessly at the men and so jealously at the women, sank softly on the children, happy and appeased.  Poor Flossie.  He had long ago divined her heart.  He did his best to please her; he sat down when she told him to sit down, stared when she told him to stare, and relapsed into his now habitual attitude of dejection.  A little girl toddled past him in play; stopped at his knees and touched them with her hand and rubbed her small body against them, chuckling with delight.

“The dear little mite,” said Flossie; “she’s taken quite a fancy to you, Keith.”  Her face was soft and shy under her black veil, and when she looked at him she blushed.  He turned his head away.  He could not meet that look in Flossie’s eyes when he thought of what he had to say to her.  He was going to put the joy of life a little farther from her; to delay her woman’s tender ineradicable hope.

This was not the moment or the place to do it in.  They rose and walked on, turning into the open Park.  And there, sitting under a solitary tree by the path that goes towards St. John’s Wood, he broke it to her gently.

“Flossie,” he said, “I’ve something to tell you that you mayn’t like to hear.”

She made no sign of agitation beyond scraping a worn place in the grass with the tips of her little shoes.  “Well,” she said, with an admirable attempt at patience, “what is it now?”

“You mean you think it’s been about enough already?”

“If it’s really anything unpleasant, for goodness’ sake let’s have it out and get it over.”

“Right, Flossie.  I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid we shan’t be able to marry for another two years, perhaps three.”

“And why not?” Her black eyes darted a vindictive look at him under her soft veil.

“My father’s death has made a difference to me.”

Her lips tightened, and she drew a sharp but inaudible breath through her nostrils.  He had been wrong in supposing that she had not looked for any improvement in his finances after his father’s death.  On the contrary, knowing of their reconciliation and deceived by the imposing appearance of Rickman’s in the Strand, she had counted on a very substantial increase of income.

“Do you mean to say, Keith, he hasn’t left you anything?”

He laughed softly—­an unpleasant way he had in situations where most people would consider it only decent to keep grave.

“He has left me something.  A bad debt.”

“What have you got to do with his bad debts?  Nobody can come down on you to pay them.”  She paused.  A horrible thought had struck her. “Can they?  You don’t mean to say they can?”