gone before. I was wrong. It was the sort of folly which comes to one
sometimes, the sort of folly for which one pays."

His face was almost white in the moonlight. His deep-set grey eyes were
fixed upon her.

"You were content--a month ago," he said. "You have been in London for
two days, and you have come back a changed woman. Why must you think of
leaving this place? Why need you go at all?"

"My friend," she said, softly, "I think that you know why. It is very
beautiful here, and I have never been happier in all my life. But one may
not linger all one's days in the pleasant places. One sleeps through the
nights and is rested, but the days--ah, they are different."

"I cannot reason with you," he said. "You are too vague. Yet--you say
that you have been contented here."

"I have been happy," she murmured.

"Then you must speak more plainly," he insisted, a note of passion
throbbing in his hoarse tones. "I ask you again--why do you talk of going
back, like a city slave whose days of holiday are over? What is there in
the world more beautiful than the gifts the gods shower on us here? We
have the sun, and the sea, and the wind by day and by night--this! It is
the flower garden of life. Stay and pluck the roses with me."

"Ah, my friend," she murmured, "if that were possible!"

She sank down into the seat under the cedar tree. Her hands were clasped