"I quite lost my heart to her!" I went on mischievously. "We talked--"

"Have some supper!" Arthur interrupted with an air of relief, as the
maid entered with the tray. And he steadily resisted all my attempts to
return to the subject of Lady Muriel until the evening had almost worn
itself away. Then, as we sat gazing into the fire, and conversation was
lapsing into silence, he made a hurried confession.

"I hadn't meant to tell you anything about her," he said (naming no
names, as if there were only one 'she' in the world!) "till you had
seen more of her, and formed your own judgment of her: but somehow you
surprised it out of me. And I've not breathed a word of it to any one
else. But I can trust you with a secret, old friend! Yes! It's true of
me, what I suppose you said in jest.

"In the merest jest, believe me!" I said earnestly. "Why, man, I'm
three times her age! But if she's your choice, then I'm sure she's all
that is good and--"

"--and sweet," Arthur went on, "and pure, and self-denying, and
true-hearted, and--" he broke off hastily, as if he could not trust
himself to say more on a subject so sacred and so precious.
Silence followed: and I leaned back drowsily in my easy-chair,
filled with bright and beautiful imaginings of Arthur and his lady-love,
and of all the peace and happiness in store for them.

I pictured them to myself walking together, lingeringly and lovingly,
under arching trees, in a sweet garden of their own, and welcomed back
by their faithful gardener, on their return from some brief excursion.