Daphne and Cyril sat in the garden together. The conditions seemed ideal. It was a lovely afternoon; the sun was hot, but a gay irresponsible little west wind stirred the trees; bees hummed industriously, butterflies darted casually about among the few flowers, and even the reticent doves cooed from time to time, condescendingly. Peeping through the blind Mrs. Foster thought the two young people made a perfect picture, and was reminded of the Golden Age. Indeed, they had very much the charming, almost improbable air of the figures in a Summer Number of an illustrated paper. Perhaps the conditions were too perfect: the lovers had, of course, nothing to sit on but a rustic seat—Mrs. Foster would have thought it a crime to have anything else in a garden, and rustic seats are, no doubt, picturesque, but they are very uncomfortable; they seem to consist of nothing but points and knobs, gnarls and corners.When Daphne was alone with Cyril like this she felt contented and peaceful at first, and then she began to wonder why she wasn't happier still—why she didn't feel ecstatic. She was proud of Cyril; he looked very handsome in flannels, his regular features, smooth fair hair, small head and small feet all added to his resemblance to the hero in the holiday number.

Cyril said—

"Dear little girl!" and took her hand.

She laughed and answered—

"Dear old boy!"

Then he said—

"By Jove! you do look ripping, Daphne."

She smiled.

"Jolly being here like this, isn't it?" said Cyril.

"Isn't it?" she answered.

"Jolly day, too."

"Yes."

"Wasn't it lucky I was able to get away?"

"Rather."

"It was a fearful rush."

"It must have been."

"Jove, it is hot!"

There was a pause.

"Darling!"

"Dear boy!"

"May I smoke a cigarette, dear?""Yes, do."

He lit a cigarette, and then put his arm round her waist.

"Don't, Cyril."

"Why not?" he asked, removing it.

"Oh, I don't know. Henry or some one might see."

"What's Henry?"

"A sort of gardener boy—the boy whose sort of sister makes kind of blouses in the village."

"Oh, does he matter?"

Cyril was wondering if he could ask for a drink.

When they were left entirely alone, on purpose to be free, he always felt rather shy and awkward, and intensely thirsty.

Daphne began to think about what time it was, and about her train back—subjects that never occurred to her when she was alone with Mrs. Foster.

"I'm afraid I shall soon have to be going," she said.

"Oh, I say! What, the moment I've arrived?"

He tried not to feel a little relieved. He wondered why he hadn't more to say to her. He had been desperate to get consent to their engagement, and was always extremely anxious and counting the minutes till they met, and when they were together, alone after much elaborate scheming, he felt a little embarrassed, and, like his fiancÉe, was surprised he wasn't happier."I say, Daphne!"

"Yes, dear."

"You do look sweet."

"Do you really think so?"

"Simply ripping! I say!"

"Yes."

"Won't it be jolly when we're married?"

"Yes; lovely."

"It will be all the time just like this, you see—only nicer ... I say! Isn't it hot?"

They sat holding hands, he looking at her admiringly, she feeling mildly pleased that such a dear, handsome boy should be so fond of her. In the minds of both was another sensation, which they did not recognise, or, at all events, would not admit to themselves. They both, especially Cyril, counted the minutes to these tÊte-À-tÊtes, and immediately afterwards looked back on them with regret, feeling they had missed something. They wrote to each other frequent, short, but intensely affectionate letters about the happiness these interviews had given them. Yet, while they actually lasted, both Cyril and Daphne, had they only known it, were really rather bored. The next day, or the same evening, Cyril would write to her:—

"My own Darling,—How jolly it was having you a little to myself to-day! And to think that you really care for me!" and so on.

And she would enjoy writing back:—

"Dearest,—Didn't we have a heavenly time in the garden yesterday?" and so forth.

As a matter of fact, they had not had a heavenly time at all; when he kissed her, which he sometimes did, she did not really like it, though she knew she ought, and it gave her a sort of mental gratification to think that he had given this manifestation of love, as she knew it was considered the right thing.

He did not really regard her as a woman at all, but more as a lovely doll, or sweet companion, and it pleased his vanity immensely to think he should be allowed this privilege, which at the same time seemed to him a little unnecessary, and even derogatory to her, though he enjoyed it very much too, in a somewhat uncomfortable way.

The fact that their engagement was so indefinite, that they had hardly any hope of being married for at least two years, perhaps added a little to the gÊne of these meetings. The instant they were separated he began to long to see her alone again. Daphne felt sure she must be really in love because she took comparatively little interest in anything that was not more or less connected with the idea of Cyril. Perhaps she enjoyed the things she associated with him more than his actual presence. Talking about him to Valentia, or hearing about him from his mother, seemed more amusing and exciting than sitting with him alone and holding his hand. She would have liked best never to see him except in evening dress at a party, only to hear about him or think about him all day.

Cyril was sure that his feeling was real love, because he did not care two straws how hard up they should be when they were married, and because if he heard any one sing a sentimental song, however badly, he immediately thought of her with the greatest tenderness. He believed he missed her every moment of the day, and he took great trouble to see her, especially when there was a chance of their being alone. But, as a matter of fact, he was rather glad when Mrs. Foster came out into the garden; and when he had seen Daphne off at the station, although it was a pang to see her go away without him, it was perhaps also a slight relief.

When Val came to meet her at the station, full of news about the extraordinary number of exciting things that had happened in the day, and they dashed back to dress for a dinner Harry was giving before going to a dance, Daphne felt a tinge of sentiment and regret for the idyllic happiness in the garden, and began to count the hours until they should meet alone again. The glamour always returned an hour or so after they had been separated.