was at the point of putting an end to their present conjunction,--she
was preparing to rise. He would have given worlds to offer a helping
hand, but (however rich in worlds) he was, for the occasion, poor in
courage. When love comes in at the door, assurance as like as not will
fly out of the window. So she rose unaided.

"Let us hope," she said, giving him a glance in which he perceived an
under-gleam as of not unfriendly mockery, "that she will soon come to
know you better."

"Heaven forbid!" cried he, with a fine simulation of alarm. "It is upon
her ignorance of my true character that I base such faint hopes as I
possess of some day winning her esteem."

Maria Dolores laughed, nodded, and lightly moved away.

"My son," said John to himself, "you steered precious close to the wind.
You had best be careful."

And then he was conscious of a sudden change in things. The garden
smiled about him, the valley below laughed in the breeze, the blackcaps
sang, the many windows of the Castle glistened in the sun; but their
beauty and their pleasantness had departed, had retired with her into
the long, low, white-walled, red-roofed pavilion. He was conscious of a
sudden change in things, and of a sudden acute and bitter depression
within himself.

"These are great larks," he said; "great larks while they last,--but
what's the good of them in the end? What do they lead to? What's the
good of coquetting with blisses that can't be yours?" And he breathed a