“You have not been rowing to-day?”

“No; see, I have been gathering the last of the May-blossom.  May is all but dead.”

“And ’Flower of the May’?”

“Please do not remind me of that foolish song.  Had I known, I would not have sung it for worlds.”

“I would not for worlds have missed it.”

Again she frowned and now turned to go.  “And you, too, must make these speeches!”

The world of reproach in her tone was at once gall and honey to me.  Gall, because the “you too” conjured up a host of jealous imaginings; honey, because it was revealed that of me she had hoped for better.  And now like a fool I had flung her good opinion away and she was leaving me.

I made a half-step forward.

“I must go now,” she said, and the little hand was held out in token of farewell.

“No! no!  I have offended you.”

No answer.

“I have offended you,” I insisted, still holding her hand.

“I forgive you.  But, indeed, I must go.”  The hand made a faint struggle to be free.

“Why?”

My voice came hard and unnatural.  I still held the fingers, and as I did so, felt the embarrassment of utter shyness pass over the bridge of our two hands and settle chokingly upon my heart.

“Why?” I repeated, more hoarsely yet.

“Because—­because I must not neglect mother again.  She is waiting.”

“Then let me go with you.”

“Oh, no!  Some day—­if we meet—­I will introduce you.”

“Why not now?”

“Because she is not well.”

Even my lately-acquired knowledge of the Materia Medico, scarcely warranted me in offering to cure her.  But I did.

She laughed shyly and said, “How, sir; are you a doctor?”

“Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, gentleman, apothecary,” I said lightly, “neither one nor the other, but that curious compound of the two last—­a medical student.”

“Then I will not trust you,” she answered, smiling.

“Better trust me,” I said; and something in my words again made her look down.

“You will trust me?” I pleaded, and the something in my words grew plainer.

Still no answer.

“Oh, trust me!”

The hand quivered in mine an instant, the eyes looked up and laughed once more.  “I will trust you,” she said—­“not to move from this spot until I am out of sight.”

Then with a light “Good-bye” she was gone, and I was left to vaguely comprehend my loss.

Before long I had seen her a third time and yet once again.  I had learnt her name to be Luttrell—­Claire Luttrell; how often did I not say the words over to myself?  I had also confided in Tom and received his hearty condolence, Tom being in that stage of youth which despises all of which it knows nothing—­love especially, as a thing contrary to nature’s uniformity.  So Tom was youthfully cynical, and therefore by strange inference put on the airs of superior age; was also sceptical of my description, especially a certain comparison of her eyes to stars, though a very similar trope occurred somewhere in the tragedy.  Indeed therein Francesca’s eyes were likened to the Pleiads, being apparently (as I pointed out with some asperity) seven in number, and one of them lost.