The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, just
inside, and under the orange tree.

'You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we have a musical
evening this day fortnight. You will come? Promise; and we must
sing that duet again, and sing it properly.'

He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red begonia,
and gave it to her.

'That is a pledge. It is very good of you.'

She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but she
dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees to find it;
rose, and put the flower in its proper place himself, and his head
nearly touched her neck, quite unnecessarily.

'We had better go back now,' she said, 'but mind, I shall keep this
flower for a fortnight and a day, and if you make any excuses I shall
return it faded and withered.'

'Yes, I will come.'

'Good boy; no apologies like those you sent the last time. No bad
throat. Play me false, and there will be a pretty rebuke for you--a
dead flower.'

PLAY ME FALSE! It was as if there were some stoppage in a main
artery to his brain. PLAY ME FALSE! It rang in his ears, and for a