said. "I state a plain fact. You
can make of it what you please."

The young man rose leisurely from his place, sauntered across the
roadway, and stood with his back to her, looking down the valley. The
harvesters, their meal finished, moved away towards the further side of
the great corn-field. The women followed them slowly, gleaning as they
went. It was very quiet. And again there came to Honoria that ache of
longing for the but-half-disclosed glory and fulness of life. It was
there, an actuality--could she but find it, had she but the courage and
the wit. Then, from the open moorland beyond the park palings, came the
sound of horses trotting sharply. Ludovic Quayle turned and recrossed
the road. He smiled, but his superfine manner, his effect of slight
impertinence were, for the moment, in abeyance.

"Miss St. Quentin," he said, "what is the use of fencing any longer? I
have done that which I engaged to do, namely, displayed the patience of
innumerable asses. And--if I may be pardoned mentioning such a
thing--the years pass. Really they do. And I seem to get no forwarder!
My position becomes slightly ludicrous."

"I know it, I know it!" Honoria cried penitently.

"That I am ludicrous?"

"No, no," she protested, "that I have been unreasonable and traded on
your forbearance, that I have done wrong in allowing you to wait."

"That you could not very well help," he said, "since I chose to wait.
And, indeed, I greatly preferred waiting as long as there seemed to be
a hope there was something--anything, in short--to wait for."

"Ah! but that is precisely what I have never been sure about
myself--whether there really was anything to wait for or not."

She sat straight on the coping of the parapet again. Her face bore the
most engaging expression. There was a certain softness in her aspect
to-day. She was less of a youth, a comrade, so it seemed to Mr. Quayle,
more distinctly, more consciously a woman. But now, to the sound of
trotting horse-hoofs was added that of wheels. With a clang the park
gates were thrown open.

"And are you still uncertain? In the back of your mind is there still a
trifle of doubt?--If so, give me the benefit of it," the young man
pleaded, half laughingly, half brokenly.

A carriage passed under the gray archway of the red-brick and freestone
lodges. Rapidly it came on down the wide, smooth, string-coloured
road--a space of neatly kept turf on either side--under the shade of
the heavy-f