selfish, isn't it?--because I should be so unhappy afterwards if I
_did!"_

"A perfect reason," says Hardinge very earnestly. He is still
leaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers. It
is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it?
Where is any other thing as good to look at as this small, fair
creature, with the eyes, and the hair, and the lips that belong to
her?

He has taken possession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as though
indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes to
sweep the feathers of it across his lips.

"Do you think so?" says she, as if a little puzzled. "Well, I
confess I don't like the moments when I hate myself. We all hate
ourselves sometimes, don't we?" looking at him as if doubtfully, "or
is it only I myself, who----"

"Oh, no!" says Hardinge. _"All!_ All of us detest ourselves now and
again, or at least we think we do. It comes to the same thing, but
you--you have no cause."

"I should have if I danced," says she, "and I couldn't bear the
after reproach, so I don't do it."

"And yet--yet you would _like_ to dance?"

"I don't know----" She hesitates, and suddenly looks up at him with
eyes as full of sorrow as of mirth. "At all events I know _this,"_