He was greatly interested in as much of the story as he could follow—­Emmy was somewhat discursive—­and as his interjectory remarks were unprovocative of argument, he constituted himself a good listener.  Besides, romance had never come his way.  It was new to him, even Emmy’s commonplace little romance, like a field of roses to a town-bred child, and it seemed sweet and gracious, a thing to dream about.  His own distant worship of Zora did not strike him as romantic.  It was a part of himself, like the hallowed memory of his mother and the conception of his devastating guns.  Had he been more worldly-wise he would have seen possible danger in Emmy’s romance, and insisted on Zora being taken into their confidence.  But Septimus believed that the radiant beings of the earth, such as Emmy and Mordaunt Prince, from whom a quaint destiny kept him aloof, could only lead radiant lives, and the thought of harm did not cross his candid mind.  Even while keeping Emmy’s secret from Zora, he regarded it as a romantic and even dainty deceit.

Zora, seeing him happy with his guns and Wiggleswick and Emmy, applauded herself mightily as a contriver of good.  Her mother also put ideas into her head.

From the drawing-room window they once saw Emmy and Septimus part at the little front gate.  They had evidently returned from a walk.  She plucked a great white chrysanthemum bloom from a bunch she was carrying, flicked it laughingly in his face, and stuck it in his buttonhole.

“What a good thing it would be for Emmy,” said Mrs. Oldrieve, with a sigh.

“To marry Septimus?  Oh, mother!”

She laughed merrily; then all at once she became serious.

“Why not?” she cried, and kissed her mother.

Mrs. Oldrieve settled her cap.  She was small and Zora was large, and Zora’s embraces were often disarranging.

“He is a gentleman and can afford to keep a wife.”

“And steady?” said Zora, with a smile.

“I should think quite steady,” said Mrs. Oldrieve, without one.

“And he would amuse Emmy all day long.”

“I don’t think it is part of a husband’s duty, dear, to amuse his wife,” said Mrs. Oldrieve.

The sudden entrance of Emmy, full of fresh air, laughter, and chrysanthemums, put an end to the conversation; but thenceforward Zora thought seriously of romantic possibilities.  Like her mother, she did not entirely approve of Emmy’s London circle.  It was characterized by too much freedom, too great a lack of reticence.  People said whatever came into their minds, and did, apparently, whatever occurred to their bodies.  She could not quite escape from her mother’s Puritan strain.  For herself she felt secure.  She, Zora, could wander unattended over Europe, mixing without spot or stain with whatever company she listed; that was because she was Zora Middlemist, a young woman of exceptional personality and experience of life.  Ordinary young persons,