s cynically indifferent; he
hated George without any reservation whatsoever.

And after this their came for our pair of embryo lovers some ten or
twelve such happy days (for there was no talk of Arthur's departure,
Philip having on several occasions pointedly told him that the house
was at his disposal for as long as he chose to remain in it). The sky
was blue in those days, or only flecked with summer clouds, just as
Arthur and Angela's perfect companionship was flecked and shaded with
the deeper hues of dawning passion. Alas, the sky in this terrestrial
clime is never _quite_ blue!

But as yet nothing of love had passed between them, no kiss or word of
endearment; only when hand touched hand a strange thrill had moved
them both, and sent the warm blood to stain Angela's clear brow, like
a wavering tint of sunlight thrown upon the marble features of some
white Venus; only in each other's eyes they found a holy mystery. The
spell was not yet fully at work, but the wand of earth's great
enchanter had touched them, and they were changed. Angela is hardly
the same girl she was when we met her a little more than a fortnight
back. A nameless change has come over her face and manner; the merry
smile, once so bright, has grown softer and more sweet, and the
laughing light of her grey eyes has given place to a look of some such
gratitude and wonder, as that with which the traveller in lonely
deserts gazes on the oasis of his perfect rest.

Many times Arthur had almost blurted out the truth to the woman he
passionately adored, and every day so added to the suppressed fire of
his love that at length he felt that he could not keep his secret to
himself much longer. And yet he feared to tell it; better, he thought,
to live happy, if in doubt, than to risk all his fortune on a single
throw, for before his eyes there lay the black dread of failure; and
then, what would life be worth? Here with Angela he lived in a Garden
of Eden that no forebodings, no anxieties, no fear of that partially
scotched serpent George, could render wretched, so long as it was
gladdened by the presence of her whom he hoped to make his Eve. But
without, and around where she could not be, there was nothing but
clods and thistles and a black desolation that, even in imagination,
he dared not face.

And Angela, gazing on veiled mysteries with wondering eyes, was she
happy during those spring-tide days? Almost; but still there was in
her heart a consciousne