“And how long is this process to last?”

“About a year; by which time Geraldine will be nearly eighteen, and ready to step into my shoes.  Mamma will be glad enough to be rid of me then, and to try her hand upon her instead.  Geraldine is meek and tractable, and will be quite willing to do as she is told.”

“And, meanwhile, what am I to do?”

“You!  You are to make love to Sophy Macpherson.  Do you not know that she is the excuse for your having been asked here at all?”

“I don’t like it, Beatrice,” repeats her lover, gravely—­not, however, alluding to the duties relating to Miss Macpherson, which she had been urging upon him.  “Upon my life, I don’t.”  He looks away moodily out of the window.  “I hate doing things on the sly.  And, besides, I am a poor man, and your parents are rich.  I could not afford to support a wife at present on my own income.”

“All the more reason that we should wait,” she interrupts, quickly.

“Yes; but I ought not to have spoken to you; I’d no business to steal your heart.”

“You did not steal it,” she says, nestling up to his side.  “I presented it to you, free, gratis.”

Where is the man who could resist such an appeal!  Away went duty, prudence, and every other laudable consideration to the winds; and Herbert Pryme straightway became insanely and blissfully oblivious of his own poverty, of Mr. Miller’s wealth, and of everything else upon earth and under the sun that was not entirely and idiotically delightful and ecstatic.

“You will do as I tell you?” whispers Beatrice.

“Of course I will,” answers her lover.  And then there is a complete stagnation of the power of speech on both sides for the space of five minutes, during which the clock ticking steadily on at the far end of the corridor has things entirely its own way.

“There is another couple who are happy,” says Herbert Pryme, breaking the charmed silence at length, and indicating, by a sign, two people who are wandering slowly down the garden.  Beatrice Miller, following the direction of his eyes, sees Maurice Kynaston and Vera.

“Those two?” she exclaims.  “Oh dear, no!  They are not happy—­not in our way.  Miss Nevill is engaged to his brother, you know.”

“Umph! if I were Sir John Kynaston, I would look after my brother then.”

“Herbert! what can you mean?” cries Beatrice, opening her eyes in astonishment.  “Why, Captain Kynaston is supposed to be engaged to Mrs. Romer; at any rate, she is desperately in love with him.”

“Yes, everybody knows that:  but is he in love with her?”

“Herbert, I am sure you must be mistaken!” persists Beatrice, eagerly.

“Perhaps I am.  Never mind, little woman,” kissing her lightly; “I only said they looked happy.  If you will take the trouble to remark them through the day, you will, perhaps, be struck by the same blissful aspect that I have noticed.  If they are happy, it won’t last long.  Why should not one be glad to see other people enjoying themselves?  Let them be happy whilst they can.”