"They always did abroad," says Paul, "or at least when I met them; they were the amazement of all beholders."
"I would rather get up early in the morning to do it," I say, energetically, "than have every one smiling at me, would not you?"
"Much rather!" he says, with emphasis; "it would pretty well take the bloom off to have any amount of people looking at one."
We are in the park now, where are cool shady paths and long pleasant glades, through which the hot tyrannical sun cannot pierce. In the distance Silvia and Sir George Vestris are walking; do they never, I wonder, grow tired of each other's society?
"There go the lovers," says Paul, looking towards them.
"Are they both pretending, do you think?" I say, speaking my thoughts, as I have a bad knack of doing, since for what are words given us, save to delicately disguise our meaning?
"Pretending!" he repeats, with real astonishment; "why should she? I did not know people ever pretended to be in love."
Evidently he has no suspicion that she loves him still; far less is there any of the quick eagerness in his voice that a lover's should borrow.
"Nell," he says, looking down on me with a queer smile, "don't ever try to deceive any one, for your face will always betray you. Now, I know what you are thinking; pray, was it to me and Silvia that you meditated playing gooseberry?"
"Yes, it was," I say, turning my red face round. "I have always wanted to tell you. I knew all along that you liked her; I knew it at Charteris."
"And you think I like her now?"
"Do you not?" I say, lifting my eyes to his dark face. "Do you forget so quickly?"
"I do not forget," he says, "but that old fancy is dead and buried, thank God!" he throws out his arms with a gesture of
