half hour.

"If you are going home, the nearest way will be by the garden gate into
Bishop's Lane. It is only a minute from there to Dean Street."

"Why, that would be perfectly lovely. But where is the gate?"

"I will show you." They walked together to the lower end of the lawn,
where a long line of glass houses built against the high wall which
separated the garden from the street called Bishop's Lane, sheltered
the grapes and the pine-apples. At the end of this conservatory, in the
wall, was a little door of thin but strong steel plates, concealed from
sight by a row of pear trees. Farnham opened it, and said, "If you
like, you can come in by this way. It is never locked in the daytime.
It will save you a long walk."

"Thanks," she replied. "That will be perfectly lovely."

Her resources of expression were not copious, but her eyes and her
mouth spoke volumes of joy and gratitude. Her hands were full of roses,
and as she raised her beautiful face to him with pleasure flashing from
her warm cheeks and lips and eyes, she seemed to exhale something of
the vigorous life and impulse of the spring sunshine. Farnham felt that
he had nothing to do but stoop and kiss the blooming flower-like face,
and in her exalted condition she would have thought little more of it
than a blush-rose thinks of the same treatment.

But he refrained, and said "Good morning," because she seemed in no
mood to say it first.