two men met and passed, each upon his
opposite way, without pausing and without salutation, and neither
Richard nor Laura, whose eyes were upon the meeting, perceived
that they had taken cognizance of each other. But one had asked a
question and the other had answered.

Mr. Pryor spoke in a low monotone, with a rapidity as singular as
the restrained but perceptible emphasis he put upon one word of
his question.

"I got you in the park," he said; and it is to be deduced that
"got" was argot. "You're not _doing_ anything here, are you?"

"No!" answered Corliss with condensed venom, his back already to
the other. He fanned himself with his hat as he went on. Mr. Pryor
strolled up the street with imperturbable benevolence.

"Your coast is cleared," said Laura, "since you wouldn't clear it
yourself."

"Wish me luck," said Richard as he left her.

She nodded brightly.

Before he disappeared, he looked back to her again (which
profoundly surprised her) and smiled rather disconsolately,
shaking his head as in prophecy of no very encouraging reception
indoors. The manner of this glance recalled to Laura what his
mother had once said of him. "Richard is one of those sweet,
helpless men that some women adore and others despise. They fall
in love with the ones that despise them."

An ostentatious cough made her face about, being obviously
designed to that effect; and she beheld her brother in the act of
walking slowly across the yard with his back to her. He halted
upon the border of her small garden of asters, regarded it
anxiously, then spread his handkerchief upon the ground, knelt
upon it, and with thoughtful care uprooted a few weeds which were
beginning to sprout, and also such vagrant blades of grass as
encroached upon the floral territory. He had the air of a virtuous
man performing a good action which would never become known.
Plainly, he thought himself in solitude and all unobserved.

It was a touching picture, pious and humble. Done into coloured
glass, the kneeling boy and the asters--submerged in ardent
sunshine--would have appropriately enriched a cathedral: Boyhood
of Saint Florus the Gardener.

Laura heartlessly turned her back, and, affecting an interest in
her sleeve, very soon experienced the sensation of being stared at
with some poignancy from behind. Unchanged in attitude, she
unravelled an imaginary thread, whereupon the cough reached her
again, shrill and loud, its insistence not lacking in p