"I ought not to come."
"You have promised," he says, in a louder tone.
"Hush--hush!" she entreats. "Yes, I will come."
Before the hour has passed, he has appeased his hunger, and is standing by the brook, waiting for Nelly. The night is most peaceful and lovely, and Mr. Temple, as he smokes his cigar, pays homage to it in an idle way, and derives a patronising pleasure from the shadows in the starlit waters. His thoughts are not upon the graceful shapes, although his eyes behold them. What, then, does he see in their place? Do the floating reflections bear a deeper meaning to his senses than they would convey under ordinary conditions? Does he see any foreshadowing of the future there? No. His thoughts are all upon the present, and what he beholds is merely tinged with such poetry as springs from animal sentiment. He may trick himself into a finer belief, but he cannot alter its complexion. He is in an ineffably pleasant mood, and his pulses are stirred by just that feeling of pleasurable excitement which sheds a brighter gloss on all surrounding things. At the sound of a step behind him he smiles and his heart beats faster. "It is Nelly," he whispers. But when he turns, and confronts the gardener's son, the smile leaves his face.
"I ask your pardon, sir," says the young man, "can I have a word with you?"
"Ah!" says Mr. Temple, with a look of curiosity at the young fellow, "you are the gardener's son."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Temple regards the intruder attentively, and says, rather haughtily:
"You have selected a singular time for a conference."
"I must speak to you now, sir."