Simple as the words were, both of them seemed to feel that a certain relation—­a certain responsibility—­had been established between them.  The thought exhilarated Maud; it seemed the beginning of her long-expected romance; while the glow of kind feeling about the heart of Farnham could not keep him from suspecting that he was taking a very imprudent step.  But they sat a good while, discussing various plans for Maud’s advantage, and arriving at nothing definite; for her own ideas were based upon a dime-novel theory of the world, and Farnham at last concluded that he would be forced finally to choose some way of life for his protegee, and then persuade her to accept it.

He grew silent and thoughtful with this reflection, and the conversation languished.  He was trying to think how he could help her without these continued interviews at his house, when she disposed of the difficulty by rising briskly and saying, “Well, I will call again in a day or two, about this hour?”

“Yes, if it suits you best,” he answered, with a troubled brow.  He followed her to the door.  As she went out, she said, “May I pick a flower as I go?”

He seized his hat, and said, “Come with me to the rose-house in the garden, and you shall have something better.”

They walked together down the gravel paths, through the neat and well-kept garden, where the warm spring sunshine was calling life out of the tender turf, and the air was full of delicate odors.  She seemed as gay and happy as a child on a holiday.  Her disappointment of an hour ago was all gone in the feeling that Arthur was interested in her, was caring for her future.  Without any definite hopes or dreams, she felt as if the world was suddenly grown richer and wider.  Something good was coming to her certainly, something good had come; for was she not walking in this lovely garden with its handsome proprietor, who was, she even began to think, her friend?  The turf was as soft, the air as mild, the sun as bright as in any of her romances, and the figure of Farnham’s wealth which she had heard from her father rang musically in her mind.

They went into the rose-house, and he gave her two or three splendid satiny Marechal Niels, and then a Jacqueminot, so big, so rich and lustrous in its dark beauty, that she could not help crying out with delight.  He was pleased with her joy, and gave her another, “for your hair,” he said.  She colored with pleasure till her cheek was like the royal flower.  “Hallo!” thought Farnham to himself, “she does not take these things as a matter of course.”  When they came into the garden again, he made the suggestion which had been in his mind for the last half hour.

“If you are going home, the nearest way will be by the garden gate into Bishop’s Lane.  It is only a minute from there to Dean Street.”

“Why, that would be perfectly lovely.  But where is the gate?”