says she, "that I wish the band would not play such nice waltzes!"

Hardinge gives way to laughter, and presently she laughs too, but
softly, and as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a little
ashamed of herself. Her color rises, a delicate warm color that
renders her absolutely adorable.

"Shall I order them to stop?" asks Hardinge, laughing still, yet
with something in his gaze that tells her he _would_ forbid them to
play if he could, if only to humor her.

"No!" says she, "and, after all,"--philosophically--"enjoyment is
only a name."

"That's all!" says Hardinge, smiling. "But a very good one."

"Let us forget it," with a little sigh, "and talk of something else,
something pleasanter."

"Than enjoyment?"

She gives way to his mood and laughs afresh.

"Ah! you have me there!" says she.

"I have not, indeed," he returns quietly, and with meaning. "Neither
there, nor anywhere."

He gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on which
she is sitting.