“I want to ask you, Mr. Burton,” he said, “what you think of your surroundings—­of the restaurant and your neighbors on every side?”

“The restaurant is very beautiful,” Burton admitted.  “The whole place seems delightful.  One can only judge of the people by their appearance.  That, at any rate, is in their favor.”

Mr. Bomford nodded approvingly.

“I will admit, Mr. Burton,” he continued, leaning a little towards him, “that one of my objects in asking you to dine this evening, apart from the pleasure of your company, was to prove to you the truth of one of my remarks the other evening—­that the expenditure of money need not necessarily be associated with vulgarity.  This is a restaurant which only the rich could afford to patronize save occasionally, yet you see for yourself that the prominent note here is a subdued and artistic tastefulness.  The days of loud colors and of the flamboyant life are past.  Money to-day is the handmaiden to culture.”

Exceedingly pleased with his speech, Mr. Bomford leaned back in his chair and lighted a half-crown cigar.  Presently, without any visible co-operation on their part, a little scheme was carried into effect by the professor and Mr. Bomford.  The latter rose and crossed to the other side of the room to speak to some friends.  A few moments later he beckoned to the professor.  Edith and Burton were alone.  She drew a deep sigh of relief and turned towards him as though expecting him to say something.  Burton, however, was silent.  He had never seen her quite like this.  She wore a plain white satin dress and a string of pearls about her neck, which he saw for the first time entirely exposed.  The excitement of the evening had brought a delicate flush to her face; the blue in her eyes was more wonderful here, even, than out in the sunlight.  Amid many toilettes of more complicated design, the exquisite and entire simplicity of her gown and hair and ornaments was delightful.

“You are quiet this evening,” she whispered.  “I wish I could know what you are thinking of all the time.”

“There is nothing in my thoughts or in my heart,” he answered, “which I would not tell you if I could.  Evenings like this, other evenings which you and I have spent together in still more beautiful places, have been like little perfect epochs in an imperfect life.  Yet all the time one is haunted.  I am haunted here to-night, even, as I sit by your side.  I move through life a condemned man.  I know it for I have proved it.  Before very long the man whom you know, who sits by your side at this moment, who is your slave, dear, must pass.”

“You can never altogether change,” she murmured.

His hands clasped the small silver box in his pocket.

“In a few months,” he said hoarsely, “unless we can find the missing plant, I shall be again the common little clerk who came and peered over your hedge at you in the summer.”

She smiled a little incredulously.