They passed out into the sunlit orchard. In an apple tree a thrush was singing; the gooseberries were over-ripe; beetroots were flowering everywhere.
"You are very beautiful," he said.
"Yes," said Gwendolen.
"I must see you again. Listen! To-night my mother, Lady Beltravers, is giving a ball. Do you dance?"
"Alas, not the tango," she said sadly.
"The Beltraverses do not tang," he announced with simple dignity. "You valse? Good. Then will you come?"
"Thank you, my lord. Oh, I should love to!"
"That is excellent. And now I must bid you good-bye. But first, will you not tell me your name?"
"Gwendolen French, my lord."
"Ah! One 'f' or two?"