Lunch came—­we went to the dining-room.  Lady Thesiger told us we had only half an hour to spare; she had promised the duchess to send everything in that evening, and she did not wish to break her word.

“It is worse than slavery,” I said, and Lady Thesiger laughed, little knowing why I was so impatient.

Back again to work.  Happily, all was finished, and the servants were called in to pack the pretty, fragile articles.

“Now I shall have five minutes,” I thought to myself, “and I will find out whether she cares for me or not.”

Alas! there was the dressing-bell.  “We have just finished in time for dinner,” said Lady Thesiger.  “Sir John will not be at home; he does not return until late.”

I was tortured with impatience.  Had I been waiting for a verdict over life or death, my agony would not have been one-half so great.

The long ordeal of dinner had to pass.

“You will allow me to go to the drawing-room with you,” I said to the mistress of the house.  “I could not sit here alone.”

Then I saw a chance.  Agatha went to the piano and played one of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words.”  The difference between the pure, sweet, high-bred English girl and the brilliant, seductive French woman never appeared to me so great as when they were at the piano.  Coralie’s music wrapped one’s soul, steeped one’s senses, brought one nearer to earth; Agatha took one almost straight to heaven.  Listening to her, pure and holy thoughts came, high and noble impulses.

Then, seeing that Lady Thesiger looked tired, I suggested that she should rest upon the sofa while I took Miss Thesiger for a little stroll through the gardens.  The evening was beautiful, warm and clear, the golden sun lingering as though loath to leave the fair world to darkness.

At last, at last!  My hands trembled with impatience as I drew the black lace mantilla over her white shoulders.  At last, at last I had her all to myself, only the birds and flowers around us, only the blue sky overhead.

Then, when I would have given worlds for the power of speech, a strange, dull silence came over me.

“Agatha,” I said at last, “I came over today on purpose to see you.  I want to ask you something, a favor so great my lips can hardly frame the words.”

She looked at me.  There was infinite wonder, infinite gentleness in her eyes.  I took courage then, and told my tale in burning words.  I cannot remember now, but I told her how I had loved her from the first moment I had ever seen her, and had resolved upon winning her, if she was to be won.

Never mind what passed.  I only know the sun never shone so brightly, the flowers were never one-half so fair, the world so bright, no man ever one-half so happy.

For she—­well, she had listened to me, and her sweet lips quivered, her beautiful face had grown tender and soft; she laid her little, white hands in mine and said she loved me.