who lived in an old-fashioned garden, and who seemed herself
to be part of a fairy story, Edith certainly took a practical view of
the situation.

"I am afraid," she murmured, "that the Divorce Courts have no
jurisdiction over your case. You are therefore a married man, and
likely to continue a married man. I cannot possibly allow you to hold
my hand."

His head swam for a moment. She was very alluring with her pale face
set in its clouds of golden hair, her faintly wrinkled forehead, her
bewitchingly regretful smile--regretful, yet in a sense provocative.

"I am in love with you," he declared.

"Naturally," she replied. "The question is--" She paused and looked
intently at the tip of her slipper. It was very small and very pointed
and it was quite impossible to ignore the fact that she had a remarkably
pretty foot and that she wore white silk stockings. Burton had never
known any one before who wore white silk stockings.

"I am very much in love with you," he repeated. "I cannot help it. It
is not my fault--that is to say, it is as much your fault as it is
mine."

The corners of her mouth twitched.

"Is it? Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"I am going to take you down to the orchard, through the little gate,
and across the plank into the hayfield," he announced, boldly. "I am
going to sit with you under the oak tree, where we can just catch the
view of the moor through the dip in the hills. We will lean back and
watch the clouds--those little white, fleecy, broken-off pieces--and I
will tell you fairy stories. We shall be quite alone there and perhaps
you will let me hold your hand."

She shook her head, gently but very firmly. "Such things are
impossible."

"Because I have a wife at Garden Green?"

She nodded.

"Because you have a wife, and because--I had really quite forgotten to
mention it before, but as a matter of fact I am half engaged to someone
myself."

He went suddenly white.

"You are not serious?" he demanded. "Perfectly," she assured him. "I
can't think how I forgot it."

"Does he come here to see you?" Burton asked, jealously.

"Not very often. He has to work hard." Burton leaned back in his seat.
The music of life seemed suddenly to be playing afar off--so far that he
could only dimly catch the strains. The wind, too, must have
changed--the perfume of the roses reached him no more.

"I thought you understood," he said slowly.

She did not speak again for several moments