They dined in the annex of a fashionable restaurant practically out of doors—­a cool green lawn for a carpet and a fountain playing close at hand.  Mary wore a white dinner-gown, gossamer-like and airy.  Her rich brown hair was tastefully arranged, her voice had never seemed to him so soft and pleasant.  All around was the hum of cheerful conversation.  A little world of people seemed to be there whose philosophy of life after all was surely the only true one, where hearts were light with the joy of the moment.  The dinner was carefully served, the wine, which in his solitude he had neglected, stole through his veins with a pleasant warmth.  Brooks felt his nerves relax, the light came back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks.  Their conversation grew brighter—­almost gay.  They both carefully avoided all mention of their work—­it was a holiday.  The burden of his too carefully thought out life seemed to pass away.  Brooks felt that his youth was coming to him a little late, but with delicious freshness.

He smoked a cigarette and sipped his coffee, glancing every now and then at his companion with approving eyes.  For Mary, whose dress was so seldom a matter of moment to her, chanced to look her best that night.  The delicate pallor of her cheeks under the rich tone of her hair seemed quite apart from any suggestion of ill-health, her eyes were wonderfully full and soft, a quaint pearl ornament hung by a little gold chain from her slender, graceful neck.  A sort of dreamy content came over Brooks.  After all, why should he throw himself in despair against the gates of that other world, outside which he himself had elected to dwell?  It was only madness for him to think of Sybil.  While Lord Arranmore lived he must remain Kingston Brooks—­and for Kingston Brooks it seemed that even friendship with her was forbidden.  He could live down those memories.  They were far better crushed.  He thought of that moment in Mary’s sitting-room, that one moment of her self-betrayal, and his heart beat with an unaccustomed force.  Why not rob her of the bitterness of that memory?  He looked at the white hand resting for a moment on the table so close to his, and a sudden impulse came over him to snatch it up, to feel his loneliness fade away for ever before the new light in her face.

“Let us go and sit on the other side of the lawn,” he said, leaning over towards her.  “We can hear the music better.”

They found a quiet seat where the music from the main restaurant reached them, curiously mingled with the jingling of cab bells from Piccadilly.  Brooks leaned over and took her hand.  “Mary,” he said, “will you marry me?”

She looked at him as though expecting to find in his face some vague sign of madness, some clue to words which seemed to her wholly incomprehensible.  But he had all the appearance of being in earnest.  His eyes were serious, his fingers had tightened over hers.  She drew a little away, and every vestige of colour had vanished from her cheeks.