“Faith, Miss Manners, and you would consent to do this two nights more, we should have to open another gate,” he declared.  Followed by the mob, which it seems was part of the excitement, he led us out of the building into the Grand Walk; and offered to turn on the waterfall and mill, which (so Lady Sarah explained to me) the farmers and merchants fell down and worshipped every night at nine, to the tinkling of bells.  She told Mr. Tyers there was diversion enough without “tin cascades.”  When we got to the Grand Cross Walk he pointed out the black “Wilderness” of tall elms and cedars looming ahead of us.  And—­so we came to the South Walk, with its three triumphal arches framing a noble view of architecture at the far end.  Our gentlemen sauntered ahead, with their spy-glasses, staring the citizens’ pretty daughters out of countenance, and making cynical remarks.

“Why, egad!” I heard Sir Charles say, “the wig-makers have no cause to petition his Majesty for work.  I’ll be sworn the false hair this good staymaker has on cost a guinea.”

A remark which caused the staymaker (if such he was) such huge discomfort that he made off with his wife in the opposite direction, to the time of jeers and cock-crows from the bevy of Vauxhall bucks walking abreast.

“You must show us the famous ‘dark walks,’ Mr. Tyers,” says Dorothy.

“Surely you will not care to see those, Miss Manners.”

“O lud, of course you must,” chimed in the Miss Stanleys; “there is no spice in these flaps and flies.”

He led us accordingly into Druid’s Walk, overarched with elms, and dark as the shades, our gentlemen singing, “‘Ods!  Lovers will contrive,’” in chorus, the ladies exclaiming and drawing together.  Then I felt a soft, restraining hold on my arm, and fell back instinctively, vibrating to the touch.

“Could you not see that I have been trying to get a word with you for ever so long?”

“I trust you to find a way, Dolly, if you but wish,” I replied, admiring her stratagem.

“I am serious to-night.”  Indeed, her voice betrayed as much.  How well I recall those rich and low tones!  “I said I wished you shut up in the Marshalsea, and I meant it.  I have been worrying about you.”

“You make me very happy,” said I; which was no lie.

“Richard, you are every bit as reckless and indifferent of danger as they say your father was.  And I am afraid—­”

“Of what?” I asked quickly.

“You once mentioned a name to me—­”

“Yes?” I was breathing deep.

“I have forgiven you,” she said gently.  “I never meant to have referred to that incident more.  You will understand whom I mean.  You must know that he is a dangerous man, and a treacherous.  Oh!” she exclaimed, “I have been in hourly terror ever since you rode against him in Hyde Park.  There!  I have said it.”

The tense sweetness of that moment none will ever know.