“How often does he come?” Burton asked.

“He was here last Sunday week.”

“Last Sunday week!  And you call him your lover!”

“No, I have not called him that,” she reminded him gently.  “He is not that sort of man.  Only I think that he is the person whom I shall marry—­some day.”

“I am sure that you were beginning to like me,” he insisted.

She turned and looked at him—­at his pale, eager face with the hollow eyes, the tremulous mouth—­a curiously negative and wholly indescribable figure, yet in some dim sense impressive through certain unspelt suggestions of latent force.  No one could have described him, in those days, though no one with perceptions could have failed to observe much that was unusual in his personality.

“It is true,” she admitted.  “I do like you.  You seem to carry some quality with you which I do not understand.  What is it, I wonder?  It is something which reminds me of your writing.”

“I think that it is truthfulness,” he told her.  “That is no virtue on my part.  It is sheer necessity.  I am quite sure that if I had not been obliged I should never have told you that it was I who stared at you from the Common there, one of a hideous little band of trippers.  I should not even have told you about my wife.  It is all so humiliating.”

“It was yourself which obliged yourself,” she pointed out,—­“I mean that the truthfulness was part of yourself.  Do you know, it has set me thinking so often.  If only people realized how attractive absolute simplicity, absolute candor is, the world would be so much easier a place to live in, and so much more beautiful!  Life is so full of small shams, so many imperfectly hidden little deceits.  Even if you had not told me this strange story about yourself, I think that I should still have felt this quality about you.”

“I should like,” he declared, “to have you conceive a passion for the truth.  I should like to have you feel that it was not possible to live anyhow or anywhere else save in its light.  If you really felt that it would be like a guiding star to you through life, you would never be able even to consider marriage with a man whom you did not love.”

“This evening,” she said slowly, “he is coming down.  I was thinking it all over this afternoon.  I had made up my mind to say nothing about you.  Since you came, however, I feel differently.  I shall tell him everything.”

“Perhaps,” Burton suggested, hopefully, “he may be jealous.”

“It is possible,” she assented.  “He does not seem like that but one can never tell.”

“He may even give you up!”

She smiled.

“If he did,” she reminded him, “it would not make any difference.”

“I will not admit that,” he declared.  “I want your love—­I want your whole love.  I want you to feel the same things that I feel, in the same way.  You live in two places—­in a real garden and a fairy garden, the fairy garden of my dreams.  I want you to leave the real garden and let me try and teach you how beautiful the garden of fancies may become.”