"Do you like my dress?" her glance seemed to ask.

"Wonderful!" his seemed to reply, as he stealthily put out his hand
and touched a soft fold of its white fluffiness.

I could hear him think, as she leaned into the curve of the
Broadwood and bent over the flowers-

'Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard i' the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet is she!'

A footman entered, bearing the harp, which he placed on a table in
the corner. He disclaimed all knowledge of it, having probably been
well paid to do so, and the unoccupied girls gathered about it like
bees about a honeysuckle, while Patricia and Terence stayed by the
piano.

"To think it may never be a match!" sighed Francesca, "and they are
such an ideal pair! But it is easy to see that the mother will
oppose it, and although Patricia is her father's darling, he cannot
allow her to marry a handsome young pauper like Terence."