"I don't see how I could go off!" I say, laughing, "for that pre-supposes the possession of more than ordinary good looks at some period or other of my existence, and I never was anything to speak of, except to you, and———" I stop abruptly.
"Have you seen my roses?" asks Silvia, coming up to us. Beautiful Silvia in a robe that is all gleaming yellow and blood-red knots of ribbon among her laces.
"No, not yet."
"Then will you come now, and Mr. Tempest?"
"I shall be most happy," he says, stiffly.
Silvia is his neighbour's wife; he cannot refuse to be her guest without folks wondering why, so he comes, but between the pair there is a steady, strong dislike.
"Have you seen Wattie?" she asks, as we are moving away; "I heard him calling out for you just now."
Silvia and I never speak to each other on any subject save the child; he is a link between us, and she knows it, but I think she often wonders with a certain pitying scorn at my love for him. Very rarely have I entered her doors, always against my will, but bound by the promise I made her on the day Paul fetched me to her side, and he thought her dying. Well, she looks strong enough to-day, and sometimes I wonder if it was all a trick from the very beginning; and yet the illness could not be a pretence.
"We are going to the rose garden," she says, tapping her husband lightly on the shoulder with her fan, as we pass where he stands talking to some gentlemen; "will you take care of Miss Adair?"
His face is very dark as he joins me, his wife and George walking on ahead. He does not speak, neither do I; then, for silence is often more dangerous than words, I say, lamely enough, "that the party is a pleasant one."
"Or rather, that you have been very pleasantly engaged!" he
