All day long he has had her to himself, and she has been so good to him, so evidently pleased and contented with his society alone, that within his breast an earnest hope has risen, so strongly, that he only waits a fitting opportunity to lay his heart and fortune at her feet.
"I can walk no more," says Lilian, at last, sinking upon the grass beneath the shade of a huge beech that spreads its kindly arms above her. "Let us sit here and talk."
Archibald throws himself beside her, and for a few minutes silence reigns supreme.
"Well?" says Lilian, at length, turning lazy though inquisitive eyes upon her companion.
"Well?" says Archibald in return.
"I said you were to talk," remarks Lilian, in an aggrieved tone. "And you have not said one word yet. You ought to know by this time how I dislike silence."
"Blame yourself: I have been racking my brains without success for the last two minutes to try to find something suitable to say. Did you ever notice how, when one person says to another, 'Come, let us talk,' that other is suddenly stricken with hopeless stupidity? So it is now with me: I cannot talk: I am greatly afraid."
"Well, I can," says Lilian, "and as I insist on your doing so also, I shall ask you questions that require an answer. First, then, did you ever receive a note from me on my leaving the Park, asking you to take care of my birds?"
"Yes."