“Naturally!  One always listens to a comedy if it is played well.  I’ve been listening all the evening.  I’ve listened to your waif and stray, Cicely Bourne, and am perfectly willing to admit that she is worth the training you are giving her.  It’s the first time I’ve heard her sing to advantage.  I’ve listened to Eva Beaulyon’s involved explanation of a perfectly unworkable scheme for the education of country yokels (who never do anything with education when they get it), on which she is going to extract twenty thousand pounds for herself from the pockets of her newest millionaire-victim.  I’ve listened to the Bludlip Courtenay woman’s enthusiastic description of a new specific for the eradication of wrinkles and crowsfeet.  I’ve listened to that old bore Sir Morton Pippitt, and to the afflicting county gossip of the lady in green,—­Miss Ittlethwaite is her name, I believe.  And, getting tired of these things, I strolled towards the picture-gallery, and hearing your delightful voice, listened there.  I confess I heard more than I expected!”

Without a word in response, she turned from him and began to move away.  He stretched out a hand and caught her sleeve.

“Maryllia, wait!  I must speak to you—­and I may as well say what I have to say now and get it over.”

She paused.  Lifting her eyes she glanced at him with a look of utter scorn and contempt.  He laughed.

“Come out into the moonlight!”—­he said—­“Come and walk with me in this romantic old courtyard.  It suits you, and you suit it.  You are very pretty, Maryllia!  May I—­notwithstanding the parson—­smoke?”

She said nothing.  Drawing a leather case from his pocket, he took a cigar out and lit it.

“Silence gives consent,”—­he went on—­“Besides I’m sure you don’t mind.  You know plenty of men who can never talk comfortably without puffing smoke in between whiles.  I’m one of that sort.  Don’t look at me like Cleopatra deprived of Marc Antony.  Be reasonable!  I only want to say a few plain matter-of-fact words to you—–­”

“Say them then as quickly as possible, please,”—­she replied—­“I am not a good listener!”

“No?  Now I should have thought you were, judging by the patience with which you endured the parson’s general discursiveness.  What a superb night!” He stepped from the portal out on the old flagstones of the courtyard.  “Take just one turn with me, Maryllia!”

Quietly, and with an air of cold composure she came to him, and walked slowly at his side.  He looked at her covertly, yet critically.

“I won’t make love to you,”—­he said presently, with a smile—­ “because you tell me you don’t like it.  I will merely put a case before you and ask for your opinion!  Have I your permission?”