“Shall I, shall I propose to her now?” thought John.  But Kitty continued talking, and it was difficult to interrupt her.  The gravel grated under their feet; the rooks were flying about the elms.  At the end of the garden there was a circle of fig trees.  A silent place, and John vowed he would say the word there.  But as they approached his courage died within him, and he was obliged to defer his vows until they reached the green-house.

“So your time is fully occupied here.”

“And in the afternoon we go out for drives; we pay visits.  You never pay visits; you never go and call on your neighbours.”

“Oh, yes I do; I went the other day to see your father.”

“Ah yes, but that is only because he talks to you about Latin authors.”

“No, I assure you it isn’t.  Once I have finished my book I shall never look at them again.”

“Well, what will you do?”

“Next winter I intend to go in for hunting.  I have told a dealer to look out for a couple of nice horses for me.”

Kitty looked up, her grey eyes wide open.  If John had told her that he had given the order for a couple of crocodiles she could not have been more surprised.

“But hunting is over now; it won’t begin again till next November.  You will have to play lawn tennis this summer.”

“I have sent to London for a racquet and shoes, and a suit of flannels.”

“Goodness me....  Well, that is a surprise!  But you won’t want the flannels; you might play in the Carmelite’s habit which came down the other day.  How you do change your mind about things!”

“Do you never change your mind, Kitty?”

“Well, I don’t know, but not so suddenly as you.  Then you are not going to become a monk?”

“I don’t know, it depends on circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” said Kitty, innocently.

The words “whether you will or will not have me” rose to John’s lips, but all power to speak them seemed to desert him; he had grown suddenly as weak as melting snow, and in an instant the occasion had passed.  He hated himself for his weakness.  The weary burden of his love lay still upon him, and the torture of utterance still menaced him from afar.  The conversation had fallen.  They were approaching the greenhouse, and the cats ran to meet their patron.  Sammy sprang on Kitty’s shoulder.

“Oh, isn’t he a beauty? stroke him, do.”

John passed his hand along the beautiful yellow fur.  Sammy rubbed his head against his mistress’ face, her raised eyes were as full of light as the pale sky, and the rich brown head and the thin hands made a picture in the exquisite clarity of the English morning,—­in the homeliness of the English garden, with tall hollyhocks, espalier apple trees, and one labourer digging amid the cabbages.  Joy crystal as the morning itself illumined John’s mind for a moment, and then faded, and he was left lonely with the remembrance that his fate had still to be decided, that it still hung in the scale.