a never-ceasing wonder. She would sit bemused by the jingling lines
and wrapt in awe at the minstrel.

They sat on a bench by the flower-beds, gay in their spring charm of
belated crocus and hyacinth and daffodil, with here and there a
precocious tulip. Paul, sensitive to beauty, discoursed on flowers.
Max Field had a studio in St. John's Wood opening out into a garden,
which last summer was a dream of delight. He described it. When he
came into his kingdom he intended to have such a garden.

"You'll let me have a peep at it sometimes, won't you?" said Jane.

"Of course," said Paul.

The lack of enthusiasm in his tone chilled the girl's heart. But she
did not protest. In these days, in spite of occasional outspokenness
she was still a humble little girl worshipping her brilliant
companion from afar.

"How often could I come?" she asked.

"That," said he, in his boyish pashadom, "would depend on how good
you were."

Obedient to the thought processes of her sex, she made a bee line to
the particular.

"Oh, Paul, I hope you're not angry."

"At what?"