om her companions that a return would be
undignified.

They go as far as the entrance to the orchard, a good quarter of a mile,
in silence, and then the storm breaks.

"I won't have that fellow holding you in his arms," says Desmond, pale
with grief and rage, standing still and confronting her.

"I thought you said you would never be jealous again," says Monica, who
has had time to recover herself, and time, too, to grow angry.

"I also said I hoped you would never give me cause."

"Mrs. Bohun has arranged this tableau."

"Then disarrange it."

"But how?"

"Say you won't act with Ryde."

"You can't expect me to make myself laughable in that way."

"Then _I'll_ do it."

"And so make me laughable in another way. I can't see what right you
have to interfere," she breaks out suddenly, standing before him, wilful
but lovely. "What are you to me, or I to you, that you should order me
about like this?"

"You are all the world to me,--you are _my wife_," says the young man,
in a solemn tone, but with passionately angry eyes. "You can refuse me
if you like, but I shall go to my grave with your image only in my
heart. As to what I am to _you_, that is quite another thing,--less than
nothing, I should say."

"And no wonder, too, considering your _awful_ temper," says Monica,
viciously; but her tone trembles.

At this he seems to lose heart. A very sad look creeps into his dark
eyes and lingers there.

"Well, do what you like about these wretched tableaux," he says, so
wearily that Monica, though victorious, feels inclined to cry. "If they
give you a moment's pleasure, why should I rebel? As you say, I am
nothing to you. Come, let us go and look at this famous pear-tree."

But she does not stir. They are inside the orchard, standing in a very
secluded spot, with only some green apples and an ivied wall to see
them. Her eyes are downcast, and her slender fingers are playing
nervously with a ribbon on her gown. Her lips have taken a remorseful
curve. Now, as though unable to restrain the impulse, she raises her
eyes to his for a brief second, but, brief as it is, he can see that
they are full of tears.

"Brian," she says, nervously.

It is the first time she has ever called him by his Christian name, and
he turns to her a face still sad indeed, but altogether surprised and
pleased.

"Now, that is good of you," he says.

"There is nothing good about me," says Monica, tearfully. "I am as
horrid as I well can