ain to the river; but one hopes against hope. Yet, as
Feltham tells us, 'he that hopes too much shall deceive himself at
last:' that was my fate, you see. And you never once thought of coming,
did you? You were quite right."

"No, I was quite wrong; but--but--_you_ are quite wrong too in _one_
way," still with her eyes downturned.

"By what right did I expect you? I was a presumptuous fool and got just
what I deserved."

"You were not a fool," exclaims she, quickly; and then, with a little
impulsive gesture, she draws herself up and looks him fair in the eyes.
"If I had known you were there," she says, bravely, though evidently
frightened at her own temerity, "I--I--am almost sure _I_ should have
been there too!"

"No! would you really?" says Desmond, eagerly.

Then follows a rather prolonged silence. Not an awkward one, but
certainly a silence fraught with danger to both. There is no greater
friend to Cupid than an unsought silence such as this. At last it is
broken.

"What lovely roses there are in this garden!" says Desmond, pointing to
a bush of glowing beauty near him.

"Are there not?" She has taken off a long white glove, so that one hand
and arm are bare. The hand is particularly small and finely shaped, the
nails on it are a picture in themselves; the arm is slight and childish,
but rounded and very fair.

Breaking a rose from the tree indicated, she examines it lovingly, and
then, lifting it to his face, as though desirous of sympathy, says,--

"Is it not sweet?"

"It is indeed!" He is staring at her. Very gently he takes the little
hand that holds the flower and keeps it in his own. He detains it so
lightly that she might withdraw it if she pleases, but she does not.
Perhaps she doesn't please, or perhaps she sees nothing remarkable in
his action. At all events, she, who is so prone to blush on all
occasions, does not change color now, but chatters to him gayly, in an
unconcerned manner, about the scented blossoms round her, and afterwards
about the people yonder, behind the tall flowering shrubs that surround
the tennis-ground.

And still her little slender fingers lie passively in his. Glancing at
them, he strokes them lightly with his other hand, and counts her rings.

"Four--five," he says; "quite a burden for such a little hand to carry."

"I like them," says Monica: "brooches and earrings and bracelets I don't
care for, but rings I love. I never really feel dressed until they are
on. To