They were seated in a dusty glade near a road, near Woodford, and they had lost Verneede.

The loss did not seem to affect them. Fanny had picked some daisies and was making a chain of them. Leavesley was making and smoking cigarettes.

"But what I can't make out," said Leavesley—"This fellow Bevan, you said he was a beast, and now you seem quite gone on him."

"I'm not," said Fanny indignantly.

"Well, I can only judge from your words."

"I'm not!"—pouting.

"Well, there, I won't say any more. He stayed to luncheon, you said?"

"Yes," defiantly, "and tea and supper; why shouldn't he?"

"Oh, I don't see why he shouldn't, only it must have been a visitation. I should think your father was rather bored."

Fanny said nothing, but went on with her chain.

"What sort of looking fellow is he?"

"He's very nice-looking; at least he's rather fat—you know the sort of man I mean."

"And awfully rich?"

"Awfully."

Leavesley tore up grass leisurely and viciously.

"Your uncle is awfully rich too, isn't he?" asked Miss Lambert after a moment's silence.

"Yes; why?"

"I was only thinking."

"What were you only thinking?"

"I was thinking if I had to marry one or the other, which I'd chose."

Leavesley squirmed with pleasure: that was one for Bevan. He instinctively hated Bevan. He, little knowing the mind of Miss Lambert, thought this indecision of choice between his uncle and another man an exquisitely veiled method of describing the other man's undesirability.

"Marry uncle," he said with a laugh. "And then we can all live together in Gordon Square, uncle, and you, and I, and aunt, and old Verneede. The house would hold the lot of us."

"And father."

"Of course," said Leavesley, thinking she spoke in fun, "and a few more—the Captain: you don't know the Captain; he's a treasure, and would make the menagerie quite complete."

"And we could go for picnics," said Fanny.

"Rather!"

She had finished her daisy-chain, and with a charming and child-like movement she suddenly leaned forward and threw it round his neck.

"Oh, Fanny," he cried, taking both her little hands in his, "what's the good of talking nonsense? I love you, and you'll never marry any one but me."

Fanny began to cry just like a little child, and he crept up to her and put his arm round her waist.

"I love you, Fanny. Listen, darling, I love you——"

"Don't—don't—don't!" sobbed the girl, nestling closer to him at each "don't."

"Why?"

"I was thinking just the same."

"What?"

"That I——"

"That you——?"

"Don't!"

"That you love me?"

Silence interspersed with sobs, then—

"I don't love you, but I—could——"

"What?"

"Love you—but I mustn't."

Leavesley heaved a deep sigh of content, squeezed her closer and rocked her slightly. She allowed herself to be nursed like this for a few heavenly moments; then she broke away from him, pushed him away.

"I mustn't, I mustn't—don't!—do leave me alone—go away." She increased the distance between them. Tears were on her long black lashes—lashes tipped with brown—and her eyes were like passion flowers after rain—to use a simile that has never been used before.

Leavesley had got on his hands and knees to crawl closer towards her, and the intense seriousness of his face, coupled with the attitude of his body, quite dispelled Miss Lambert's inclination to weep.

"Don't!" she cried, laughing in a helpless sort of way. "Do sit down, you look so funny like that."

He collapsed, and they sat opposite to each other like two tailors, whilst Fanny dried her eyes and finished up her few remaining sobs.

A brake full of trippers passed on the road near by, yelling that romantic and delightful song

"They're happy," said Fanny, listening with a rapt expression as though she were listening to the music of the heavenly choir. "I wish I was them."

"Fanny," said her lover, ignoring this comprehensive wish, "why can't you care for me?"

"I do care for you."

"Yes, but why can't you marry me?"

"We're too poor."

"I'll be making lots of money soon."

"How much?"

"Oh, four or five hundred a year."

"That's not enough," said Fanny with a sigh, "not nearly enough."

Leavesley gazed at the mercenary beauty before him. Had he miscalculated her? was she after all like other girls, a daughter of the horse leech?

"I'd marry you to-morrow," resumed she, "if you hadn't a penny—only for father."

"What about him?"

"I must help him. I must marry a rich man or not marry at all. There——"

"Do you care for him more than me?"

"Yes."

Leavesley sighed, then he broke out: "But it's dreadful, he never would ask you to make such a sacrifice——"

"Father?"

"Yes."

"He! why, he doesn't care a button. He believes in people marrying whoever they like. He'd like me to marry you. He said only the other day you'd make a good husband because you didn't gamble or drink, and you had no taste for going to law."

Leavesley's face brightened, he got on his hands and knees again preparatory to drawing nearer.

"Sit down," said Fanny, drawing away.

"But if you love me," said the lover, collapsing again into the sitting posture.

"I don't."

"What!"

"Not enough to marry you. I could if I let myself go, but I've just stopped myself in time. I can't ever marry you."

"But, look here——"

"Yes?"

"Suppose you do marry a rich man, I don't see how it will benefit your father."

"Won't it! I'll never marry a man who won't help father, and he wants help. Oh! if you only knew our affairs," said Miss Lambert, picking a daisy and looking at it, and apparently addressing it, "the hair would stand up on the top of your head."

"Are they so bad as all that, Fanny?"

"Bad isn't the word," replied Miss Lambert, plucking the petals from the daisy one by one. "He loves me—he loves me not—he loves me—he loves me not—he loves me."

"Who?"

"You."

He got on his hands and knees again.

"Sit down."

"But, see here, listen to me: are you really serious in what you have just said?"

"I am."

"Well, promise me one thing: you won't marry any one just yet."

"What do you mean by just yet?"

"Oh, till I have a chance, till I strike oil, till I begin to make a fortune!"

"How long will that be?" asked Miss Lambert cautiously.

"I don't know," replied the unhappy painter.

"If the Roorkes Drift Mines would only go up to two hundred," said the girl, plucking another daisy, "I'd marry you; father has a whole trunkful of them. He got them at sixpence each, and if they went to two hundred they'd be worth half a million of money."

"Is there any chance, do you think?" asked Leavesley brightening. He knew something of stock exchange jargon. The Captain was great on stock exchange matters, when he was not occupied in pawning his clothes and sending wild messages to his friends for assistance.

"I think so," said Fanny. "Mr Bevan said they were going into Liqui——something."

"Liquidation."

"Yes—that's it."

Leavesley sighed. An old grey horse cropping the grass near by came and looked gloomily at the humans, snorted, and resumed his meal.

"What's the time?" asked Miss Lambert, putting on her gloves. Leavesley looked at his watch.

"Half-past six."

"Gracious! let's go; it will take us hours to get home." She rose to her feet and shook her dress.

"I wonder where old Mr Verneede can be?" said the girl, looking round as though to find him lurking amidst the foliage. "It's awful if we've lost him."

"We have his ticket, too," said Leavesley. "He's very likely gone back to the station; if we don't find him there I'll leave his ticket with the station-master."

He rose up, and the daisy-chain round his neck fell all to pieces in ruin to the ground.

They found Mr Verneede waiting for them at the station, smelling of beer, and conversing with the station-master on the weather and the crops.

At Liverpool Street, having seen Miss Lambert into an omnibus (she refused to be seen home, knowing full well the distance from Highgate to Chelsea), Leavesley, filled with a great depression of spirits, went with Verneede and sat in pubs, and smoked clay pipes, and drank beer.

This sorry pastime occupied them till 12.30, when they took leave of each other in the King's Road, Leavesley miserable, and Verneede maudlin.

"She sent me her love," said Mr Verneede, clinging to his companion's hand, and working it like a pump handle. "Bless you—bless you, my boy—don't take any more—Go—bless you."

When Leavesley looked back he saw Mr Verneede apparently trying to go home arm-in-arm with a lamp-post.