“Is it not a jolly scene?” she added—­“the fountain against the green, and the flowers and the sunshine everywhere, and all those light summer gowns outdoors in January, and—­” She checked herself and laid her hand on his arm; “Garry, do you see that girl in the wheel-chair!—­the one just turning into the gardens!”

He had already seen her.  Suddenly his heart stood still in dread of what his aunt was about to say.  He knew already somehow that she was going to say it, yet when she spoke the tiny shock came just the same.

“That,” said his aunt, “is Shiela Cardross.  Is she not too lovely for words?”

“Yes,” he said, “she is very beautiful.”

For a while they stood together there at the window, then he said good-bye in a rather subdued manner which made his aunt laugh that jolly, clear laugh which never appealed to him in vain.

“You’re not mortally stricken already at your first view of her, are you?” she asked.

“Not mortally,” he said.

“Then fall a victim and recover quickly.  And don’t let me sit here too long without seeing you; will you?”

She went to the door with him, one arm linked in his, brown eyes bright with her pride and confidence in him—­in this tall, wholesome, clean-built boy, already on the verge of distinction in his rather unusual profession.  And she saw in him all the strength and engaging good looks of his dead father, and all the clear and lovable sincerity of his mother—­her only sister—­now also dead.

“You will come to see me sometimes—­won’t you, Garry?” she repeated wistfully.

“Of course I will.  Give my love to Virginia and my amused regards to the faithful three.”

And so they parted, he to saunter down into the cool gardens on his way to call on Mr. Cardross; she to pace the floor, excited by his arrival, her heart beating with happiness, pride, solicitude for the young fellow who was like brother and son to her—­this handsome, affectionate, generous boy who had steadily from the very first declined to accept one penny of her comfortable little fortune lest she be deprived of the least luxury or convenience, and who had doggedly educated and prepared himself, and contrived to live within the scanty means he had inherited.

And now at last the boy saw success ahead, and Miss Palliser was happy, dreaming brilliant dreams for him, conjuring vague splendours for the future—­success unbounded, honours, the esteem of all good men; this, for her boy.  And—­if it must be—­love, in its season—­with the inevitable separation and a slow dissolution of an intimacy which had held for her all she desired in life—­his companionship, his happiness, his fortune; this also she dreamed for his sake.  Yes—­knowing she could not always keep him, and that it must come inexorably, she dreamed of love for him—­and marriage.