he arm with affectionate condescension, she could not possibly
run after her daughter.

The two moved away in silence towards the flower garden, and soon
disappeared round the corner of the house.

"The roses are pretty," said Guido, apologetically. "My aunt likes
people to see them."

"They are magnificent," answered Cecilia, without enthusiasm, and after
a suitable interval.

They went on, along a narrow gravel path, and though there was really
room enough for Guido to walk by her side, he pretended that there was
not, and followed her. She was very graceful, and he would not have
thought of denying it. He even looked at her as she went before him, and
he noticed the fact; but after he had taken cognisance of it, he was
quite as indifferent as before. He no longer thought her voice pleasant,
in his resentment at finding that a trap had been laid for him.

"You see, there are a good many kinds of roses," he observed, because it
would have been rude to say nothing at all. "They are not all in flower
yet."

"It is only the beginning of May," the young girl answered, without
interest.

They came to the broader walk on the other side of the plot of roses,
and Guido had to walk by her side again.

"I like your friend," she said suddenly.

"I am very glad," Guido replied, unbending at once and quietly looking
at her now. "People do not always like him at first sight."

"No, I understand that. He has the look in his eyes that men get who
have killed."

"Has he?" Guido seemed surprised. "Yes, he killed several men in Africa,
when he was alone against many, and they meant to murder him. He is
brave. Make him tell you about it, if you can induce him to talk."

"Is that so very hard?" Cecilia laughed. "Is he really more silent than
you?"

"Nobody ever called me silent," answered Guido, smiling. "I suppose you
thought so--stopped.

"Because I did not know how to begin, and because you would not. Is that
what you were going to say?"

"It is very near the truth," Guido admitted, very much amused.

"I do not blame you," said Cecilia. "How could you suppose that a mere
girl like me could possibly have anything to say--a child that has not
even been to her first party?"

"Perhaps I was afraid that the mere child might talk about philosophy
and Nietzsche," suggested Guido.

"And that would be dreadful, of course! Why? Is there any reason why a
girl should not study such things? If there is, tell me. No one ever