with a sudden change of manner. The rapid alternations of her moods always charmed him.
"To preserve the balance?" he suggested, "you have my full permission."
"And you won't be cross?" she queried a little anxiously.
"I promise to combine the patience of Job with the restraint of William the Silent."
"Suppose" she began, then paused.
"Suppose what?"
"Suppose you thought I was going to do something very—very foolish, what would you do?"
"Envy the happy man."
"Oh, please be serious," she pleaded with a slight blush, biting her under-lip to hide the smile that his retort had called up.
"Listen to that lark." Beresford lifted his eyes in an endeavour to discover the bird from which came the flood of song. "Suppose you were to ask him to be serious," he suggested. "I'm too happy to be serious."
"But you are not" she hesitated.
"Still, I'll promise."
"You know you worry me."
"Worry you?" Suddenly for Beresford the lark ceased its song, and the sunshine lost its joyousness.
"I mean I'm worried about you."
"For that re-arrangement of words I thank you."
"Please," she pleaded.
"I thought you meant that I was a nuisance. If
