her
some fine day yet."

And in his soul two voices were contending.

"Tell her--tell her--tell her! Tell her now, at once, and abide your
chances," urged one. "No--no--no--do nothing of the kind," protested the
second. "She is arguing the point for its abstract interest. She is a
hundred miles from dreaming that you are the man--hundreds of miles from
dreaming that she is the woman. If she had the least suspicion of that,
she would sing a song as different as may be. Caution, caution."

He looked at her--warm and fragrant and radiant, in her soft, white
gown, in her low lounging-chair, so near, so near to him--he looked
at her glowing eyes, her red lips, her rich brown hair, at the
white-and-rose of her skin, at the delicate blue veins in her forehead,
at her fine white hands, clasped loosely together in her lap, at the
flowing lines of her figure, with its supple grace and strength; and
behind her, surrounding her, accessory to her, he was conscious of the
golden August world, in the golden August weather--of the green park,
and the pure sunshine, and the sweet, still air, of the blue lake, and
the blue sky, and the mountains with their dark-blue shadows, of the
long marble terrace, and the gleaming marble facade of the house, and
the marble balustrade, with the jessamine twining round its columns.
The picture was very beautiful--but something was wanting to perfect its
beauty; and the name of the something that was wanting sang itself
in poignant iteration to the beating of his pulses. And he longed and
longed to tell her; and he dared not; and he hesitated....

And while he was hesitating, the pounding of hoofs and the grinding of
carriage-wheels on gravel reached his ears--and so the situation was
saved, or the opportunity lost, as you choose to think it. For next
minute a servant appeared on the terrace, and announced Mrs. O'Donovan
Florence.

And shortly after that lady's arrival, Peter took his leave.

XXI

"Well, Trixie, and is one to congratulate you?" asked Mrs. O'Donovan
Florence.

"Congratulate me--? On what?" asked Beatrice.

"On what, indeed!" cried the vivacious Irishwoman. "Don't try to pull
the wool over the eyes of an old campaigner like me."

Beatrice looked blank.

"I can't in the least think what you mean," she said.

"Get along with you," cried Mrs. O'Donovan Florence; and she brandished
her sunshade threateningly. "On your engagement to Mr.--what's this his
name is?--to