you see, over fifty yards of pavement and a crossing by myself. The
maid is walking with me now behind these lilac-bushes, you know. Her
name is Ryfe. She is very cross and silent; she wears a well-made
coat, shiny boots, rather a good hat, and carries a nosegay as big
as a chimney-sweep's--you can give it me if you like--I dare say you
bought it on purpose."

How she could twist and turn him at will! three or four playful words
like these, precious all the more that her general manner was so
haughty and reserved, caused Tom to forget her pride, her whims, her
various caprices, her too palpable indifference to himself. He offered
the flowers with humble gratitude, ignoring resolutely the presumption
that she would probably throw them away before she reached her own
door.

"Good-bye, Miss Bruce," said he, bowing reverently over the slim hand
she vouchsafed him, and "Good-bye," echoed the young lady, adding,
with another of those hard little laughs that jarred so on Tom's
nerves, "Come with better news next time, and don't give in while
there's a chance left; depend upon it the money's better worth having
than the client. By the bye, I sent you a card for Lady Goldthred's
this afternoon--only a stupid breakfast--did you forget it?"

"Are you going?" returned Tom, with the clouds clearing from his brow.

"Perhaps we shall, if it's fine," was the reply. "And now I can't wait
any longer. Don't forget what I told you, and do the best you can."

So Tom Ryfe departed from his garden of Eden with sundry misgivings
not entirely new to him, that the fruit he took such pains to ripen