He could not understand why she laughed—­though it was a short, quick, hysterical laugh, very near to tears.

“You remind me of one of Mr. Browning’s poems,” she said, half in apology.  “It is about a man who has a friend and a sweetheart.  You don’t remember it, perhaps?”

He thought for a moment.

“The fact is,” he said, “that when I think of Browning’s poems, all along the line of them, there are some of them seem to burn like fire, and I cannot see the others.”

“This is a very modest little one,” said she.  “It is a poor poet starving in a garret; and he tells you he has a friend beyond the sea; and he knows that if he were to fall ill, and to wake up out of his sickness, he would find his friend there, tending him like the gentlest of nurses, even though he got nothing but grumblings about his noisy boots.  And the—­the poor fellow—­”

She paused for a second.

“He goes on to tell about his sweetheart—­who has ruined him—­to whom he has sacrificed his life and his peace and fame—­and what would she do?  He says,

                       “’She
    —­I’ll tell you—­calmly would decree
    That I should roast at a slow fire,
    If that would compass her desire
    And make her one whom they invite
    To the famous ball to-morrow night.’

That is—­the difference—­between a friend and a sweetheart—­”

He did not notice that she spoke rather uncertainly, and that her eyes were wet.

“What do you mean, Natalie?”

“That it is a good thing for you that you have a friend.  There is one, at all events—­who will—­who will not let you go away alone.”

“My darling!” he said, “what new notion is this you have got into your head?  You do not blame yourself for that too?  Why, you see, it is a very simple thing for Lord Evelyn, who is an idle man, and has no particular ties binding him, to spend a few months in the States; and when he once finds out that the voyage across is one of the pleasantest holidays a man can take, I have no doubt I shall see him often enough.  Now, don’t let us talk any more about that—­except this one point.  Have you promised your father that you will not write to me?”

“Oh no; how could I?”

“And may I write to you?”

“I shall live from week to week expecting your letters,” she said simply.

“Then we shall not say another word about it,” said he, lightly.  “We have six days to be together:  no one can rob us of them.  Come, shall we go and have a look at the English porcelain that is on this floor?  We have whole heaps of old Chelsea and Crown Derby and that kind of thing at the Beeches:  I think I must try and run down there before I go, and send you some.  What use is it to me?”

“Oh no, I hope you won’t do that,” she said quickly, as she rose.

“You don’t care about it, perhaps?”

She seemed embarrassed for a moment.