at another thought. "You mustn't make plans, for me and Marjory,
like Mrs. Grey," he said presently. "It's mothers like Mrs. Grey who
spoil comradeships. You know, I'll never marry Marjory. She is a nice
little boy, and we are friends; but she doesn't interest me."

"She may grow more interesting: she is so young. I don't make plans,
dear,--yet I think that it might be a happy thing for you."

"She'll never interest me," said Augustine.

"Must you have a very interesting wife?"

"Of course I must:--she must be as interesting as you are!" he turned
his head to smile at her.

"You are not exacting, dear!"

"Yes, I am, though. She must be as interesting as you--and as good; else
why should I leave you and go and live with someone else.--Though for
that matter, I shouldn't leave you. You'd have to live with us, you
know, if I ever married."

"Ah, my dear boy," Lady Channice murmured. She managed a smile presently
and added: "You might fall in love with someone not so interesting. You
can't be sure of your feelings and your mind going together."

"My feelings will have to submit themselves to my mind. I don't know
about 'falling'; I rather dislike the expression: one might 'fall' in
love with lots of people one would never dream of marrying. It would
have to be real love. I'd have to love a woman very deeply before I
wanted her to share my life, to be a part of me; to be the mother of my
children." He spoke with his cheerful gravity.

"You have an old head on very young shoulders, Augustine."

"I really believe I have!" he accepted her somewhat sadly humorous
statement; "and that's why I don't believe I'll ever make a mistake. I'd
rather never marry than make a mistake. I know I sound priggish; but
I've thought a good deal about it: I've had to." He paused for a moment,
and then, in the tone of quiet, unconfused confidence that always filled
her with a sense of mingled pride and humility, he added:--"I have
strong passions, and I've already seen what happens to people who allow
feeling to govern them."

Amabel was suddenly afraid. "I know that you would always be--good
Augustine; I can trust you for that." She spoke faintly.

They had now walked down to the little garden with its box borders and
were wandering vaguely among the late roses. She paused to look at the
roses, stooping to breathe in the fragrance of a tall white cluster: it
was an instinctive impulse of hiding: she hoped in another moment to
find an